THE BETROTHED

From the Italian of

ALESSANDRO MANZONI

THE BETROTHED.

CHAPTER I.

That branch of the Lake of Como, which turns toward the south betweentwo unbroken chains of mountains, presenting to the eye a succession ofbays and gulfs, formed by their jutting and retiring ridges, suddenlycontracts itself between a headland to the right and an extended slopingbank on the left, and assumes the flow and appearance of a river. Thebridge by which the two shores are here united, appears to render thetransformation more apparent, and marks the point at which the lakeceases, and the Adda recommences, to resume, however, the name of _Lake_where the again receding banks allow the water to expand itself anewinto bays and gulfs. The bank, formed by the deposit of three largemountain streams, descends from the bases of two contiguous mountains,the one called St. Martin, the other by a Lombard name, _Resegone_, fromits long line of summits, which in truth give it the appearance of asaw; so that there is no one who would not at first sight, especiallyviewing it in front, from the ramparts of Milan that face the north, atonce distinguish it in all that extensive range from other mountains ofless name and more ordinary form. The bank, for a considerable distance,rises with a gentle and continual ascent, then breaks into hills andhollows, rugged or level land, according to the formation of themountain rocks, and the action of the floods. Its extreme border,intersected by the mountain torrents, is composed almost entirely ofsand and pebbles; the other parts of fields and vineyards, scatteredfarms, country seats, and villages, with here and there a wood whichextends up the mountain side. Lecco, the largest of these villages, andwhich gives its name to the district, is situated at no great distancefrom the bridge, upon the margin of the lake; nay, often, at the risingof the waters, is partly embosomed within the lake itself; a large townat the present day, and likely soon to become a city. At the period ofour story, this village was also fortified, and consequently had thehonour to furnish quarters to a governor, and the advantage ofpossessing a permanent garrison of Spanish soldiers, who gave lessons inmodesty to the wives and daughters of the neighbourhood, and toward theclose of summer never failed to scatter themselves through thevineyards, in order to thin the grapes, and lighten for the rustics thelabours of the vintage. From village to village, from the heights downto the margin of the lake, there are innumerable roads and paths: thesevary in their character; at times precipitous, at others level; now sunkand buried between two ivy-clad walls, from whose depth you can beholdnothing but the sky, or some lofty mountain peak; then crossing high andlevel tracts, around the edges of which they sometimes wind,

occasionally projecting beyond the face of the mountain, supported byprominent masses resembling bastions, whence the eye wanders over themost varied and delicious landscape. On the one side you behold the bluelake, with its boundaries broken by various promontories and necks ofland, and reflecting the inverted images of the objects on its banks; onthe other, the Adda, which, flowing beneath the arches of the bridge,expands into a small lake, then contracts again, and holds on its clearserpentining course to the distant horizon: above, are the ponderousmasses of the shapeless rocks; beneath, the richly cultivated acclivity,the fair landscape, the bridge; in front, the opposite shore of thelake, and beyond this, the mountain, which bounds the view.

Towards evening, on the 7th day of November, 1628, Don Abbondio, curateof one of the villages before alluded to (but of the name of which, norof the house and lineage of its curate, we are not informed), wasreturning slowly towards his home, by one of these pathways. He wasrepeating quietly his office; in the pauses of which he held his closedbreviary in his hand behind his back; and as he went, with his foot hecast listlessly against the wall the stones that happened to impede hispath; at the same time giving admittance to the idle thoughts thattempted the spirit, while the lips of the worthy man were mechanicallyperforming their function; then raising his head and gazing idly aroundhim, he fixed his eyes upon a mountain summit, where the rays of thesetting sun, breaking through the openings of an opposite ridge,illumined its projecting masses, which appeared like large and variouslyshaped spots of purple light. He then opened anew his breviary, andrecited another portion at an angle of the lane, after which angle theroad continued straight for perhaps seventy paces, and then branchedlike the letter Y into two narrow paths; the right-hand one ascendedtowards the mountain, and led to the parsonage (_Cura_); that on theleft descended the valley towards a torrent, and on this side the wallrose out to the height of about two feet. The inner walls of the twonarrow paths, instead of meeting at the angle, ended in a little chapel,upon which were depicted certain long, sinuous, pointed shapes, which,in the intention of the artist, and to the eyes of the neighbouringinhabitants, represented flames, and amidst these flames certain otherforms, not to be described, that were meant for souls in purgatory;souls and flames of a brick colour, upon a ground of blackish grey, withhere and there a bare spot of plaster. The curate, having turned thecorner, directed, as was his wont, a look toward the little chapel, andthere beheld what he little expected, and would not have desired to see.At the confluence, if we may so call it, of the two narrow lanes, therewere two men: one of them sitting astride the low wall; his companionleaning against it, with his arms folded on his breast. The dress, thebearing, and what the curate could distinguish of the countenance ofthese men, left no doubt as to their profession. They wore upon theirheads a green network, which, falling on the left shoulder, ended in alarge tassel, from under which appeared upon the forehead an enormouslock of hair. Their mustachios were long, and curled at the extremities;the margin of their doublets confined by a belt of polished leather,from which were suspended, by hooks, two pistols; a little powder-hornhung like a locket on the breast; on the right-hand side of the wide andample breeches was a pocket, out of which projected the handle of aknife, and on the other side they bore a long sword, of which the greathollow hilt was formed of bright plates of brass, combined into acypher: by these characteristics they were, at a glance, recognised asindividuals of the class of bravoes.

This species, now entirely extinct, flourished greatly at that time inLombardy. For those who have no knowledge of it, the following are a fewauthentic records, that may suffice to impart an idea of its principalcharacteristics, of the vigorous efforts made to extirpate it, and ofits obstinate and rank vitality.

As early as the 8th of April, 1583, the most illustrious and mostexcellent lord Don Charles of Arragon, Prince of Castelvetrano, Duke ofTerranova, Marquis of Avola, Count of Burgeto, High Admiral and HighConstable of Sicily, Governor of Milan, and Captain General of HisCatholic Majesty in Italy, "fully informed of the intolerable miserywhich the city of Milan has endured, and still endures, by reason ofbravoes and vagabonds," publishes his decree against them, "declares anddesignates all those comprehended in this proclamation to be regarded asbravoes and vagabonds,----who, whether foreigners or natives, have nocalling, or, having one, do not follow it,----but, either with orwithout wages, attach themselves to any knight, gentleman, officer, ormerchant,----to uphold or favour him, or in any manner to molestothers." All such he commands, within the space of six days, to leavethe country; threatens the refractory with the galleys, and grants toall officers of justice the most ample and unlimited powers for theexecution of his commands. But, in the following year, on the 12th ofApril, the said lord, having perceived "that this city still continuesto be filled with bravoes, who have again resumed their former mode oflife; their manners unchanged, and their number undiminished," putsforth another edict still more energetic and remarkable, in which, amongother regulations, he directs "that any person whatsoever, whether ofthis city or from abroad, who shall, by the testimony of two witnesses,be shown to be regarded and commonly reputed as a bravo, even though nocriminal act shall have been proved against him, may, nevertheless, uponthe sole ground of his reputation, be condemned by the said judges tothe rack for examination; and although he make no confession of guilt,he shall, notwithstanding, be sentenced to the galleys for the said termof three years, solely for that he is regarded as, and called a bravo,as above-mentioned;" and this "because His Excellency is resolved toenforce obedience to his commands."

One would suppose that at the sound of such denunciations from sopowerful a source, all the bravoes must have disappeared for ever. Buttestimony, of no less authority, obliges us to believe directly thereverse. This testimony is the most illustrious and most excellent lordJuan Fernandez de Velasco, Constable of Castile, High Chamberlain of HisMajesty, Duke of the city of Freas, Count of Haro and Castelnuovo, Lordof the house of Velasco, and of that of the Seven Infanti of Lara,Governor of the State of Milan, &c. On the 5th of June, 1593, he also,fully informed "how great an injury to the common weal, and howinsulting to justice, is the existence of such a class of men," requiresthem anew to quit the country within six days, repeating very nearly thesame threats and injunctions as his predecessor. On the 23d of May,then, 1598, "having learnt, with no little displeasure, that the numberof bravoes and vagabonds is increasing daily in this state and city, andthat nothing is heard of them but wounds, murders, robberies, and everyother crime, to the commission of which these bravoes are encouraged bythe confidence that they will be sustained by their chiefs andabettors," he prescribes again the same remedies, increasing the dose,as is usual in obstinate disorders. "Let every one, then," he concludes,

"carefully beware that he do not, in any wise, contravene this edict;since, in place of experiencing the mercy of His Excellency, he shallprove his rigour and his wrath--he being resolved and determined thatthis shall be a final and peremptory warning."

But this again did not suffice; and the illustrious and most excellentlord, the Signor Don Pietro Enriquez de Acevedo, Count of Fuentes,Captain and Governor of the State of Milan, "fully informed of thewretched condition of this city and state, in consequence of the greatnumber of bravoes that abound therein, and resolved wholly to extirpatethem," publishes, on the 5th of December, 1600, a new decree, full ofthe most rigorous provisions, and "with firm purpose that in all rigour,and without hope of remission, they shall be wholly carried intoexecution."

We are obliged, however, to conclude that he did not, in this matter,exhibit the same zeal which he knew how to employ in contriving plotsand exciting enemies against his powerful foe, Henry IV., against whomhistory attests that he succeeded in arming the Duke of Savoy, whom hecaused to lose more towns than one; and in engaging in a conspiracy theDuke of Biron, whom he caused to lose his head. But as regards thepestilent race of bravoes, it is very certain they continued to increaseuntil the 22d day of September, 1612; on which day the most illustriousand most excellent lord Don Giovanni de Mendoza, Marchese de laHynojosa, gentleman, & c., Governor, & c., thought seriously of theirextirpation. He addressed to Pandolfo and Marco Tullio Malatesti,printers of the Royal Chamber, the customary edict, corrected andenlarged, that they might print it, to accomplish that end. But thebravoes still survived, to experience, on the 24th December, 1618, stillmore terrific denunciations from the most illustrious and most excellentlord, Don Gomez Suarez de Figueroa, Duke of Feria, Governor, & c.; yet,as they did not fall even under these blows, the most illustrious andmost excellent lord Gonzalo Fernandez de Cordova, under whose governmentwe are made acquainted with Don Abbondio, found himself obliged torepublish the usual proclamation against the bravoes, on the 5th day ofOctober, 1627, that is, a year, a month, and two days previous to thecommencement of our story.

Nor was this the last publication; but of those that follow, as ofmatters not falling within the period of our history, we do not think itproper to make mention. The only one of them to which we shall refer, isthat of the 13th day of February, 1632, in which the most illustriousand most excellent lord, the Duke of Feria, for the second timegovernor, informs us, "that the greatest and most heinous crimes areperpetrated by those styled bravoes." This will suffice to prove that,at the time of which we treat, the bravoes still existed.

It appeared evident to Don Abbondio that the two men above mentionedwere waiting for some one, and he was alarmed at the conviction that itwas for himself; for on his appearance, they exchanged a look, as if tosay, "'tis he." Rising from the wall, they both advanced to meet him. Heheld his breviary open before him, as though he were employed in readingit; but, nevertheless, cast a glance upward in order to espy theirmovements. Seeing that they came directly toward him, he was beset by athousand different thoughts. He considered, in haste, whether betweenthe bravoes and himself there were any outlet from the road, and heremembered there was none. He took a rapid survey of his conduct, to

discover if he had given offence to any powerful or revengeful man; butin this matter, he was somewhat reassured by the consoling testimony ofhis conscience. The bravoes draw near, and kept their eyes upon him. Heraised his hand to his collar, as if adjusting it, and at the same timeturned his head round, to see if any one were coming; he could discoverno one. He cast a glance across the low stone wall upon the fields; noone! another on the road that lay before him; no one, except thebravoes! What is to be done? Flight was impossible. Unable to avoid thedanger, he hastened to encounter it, and to put an end to the tormentsof uncertainty. He quickened his pace, recited a stanza in a loudertone, did his utmost to assume a composed and cheerful countenance, andfinding himself in front of the two gallants, stopped short. "SignorCurate," said one of them, fixing his eyes upon him,--

"Your pleasure, sir," suddenly raising his eyes from his book, which hecontinued to hold open before him.

"You intend," pursued the other, with the threatening and angry mien ofone who has detected an inferior in an attempt to commit some villany,"you intend to-morrow to unite in marriage Renzo Tramaglino and LucyMondella."

"That is," said Don Abbondio with a faltering voice, "that is tosay--you gentlemen, being men of the world, are very well aware howthese things are managed: the poor curate neither meddles normakes--they settle their affairs amongst themselves, and then--then,they come to us, as if to redeem a pledge; and we--we are the servantsof the public."

"Mark now," said the bravo in a low voice, but in a tone of command,"this marriage is not to take place, neither to-morrow, nor at any othertime."

"But, my good sirs," replied Don Abbondio, with the mild and gentle toneof one who would persuade an impatient listener, "but, my good sirs,deign to put yourselves in my situation. If the thing depended onmyself--you see plainly, that it does not in the least concern----"

"Hold there," said the bravo, interrupting him, "this matter is not tobe settled by prating. We neither know nor care to know any more aboutit. A man once warned--you understand us."

"But, fair sirs, you are too just, too reasonable----"

"But," interrupted the other comrade, who had not before spoken, "butthis marriage is not to be performed, or (with an oath) he who performsit will not repent of it, because he'll not have time" (with anotheroath).

"Hush, hush," resumed the first orator, "the Signor Curate knows theworld, and we are gentlemen who have no wish to harm him if he conductshimself with judgment. Signor Curate, the most illustrious Signor DonRoderick, our patron, offers you his kind regards." As in the height ofa midnight storm a vivid flash casts a momentary dazzling glare aroundand renders every object more fearful, so did this _name_ increase theterror of Don Abbondio: as if by instinct, he bowed his headsubmissively, and said--

"If it could but be suggested to me."

"Oh! suggested to _you_, who understand Latin!" exclaimed the bravo,laughing; "it is for you to manage the matter. But, above all, becareful not to say a word concerning the hint that has been given youfor your good; for if you do, ehem!--you understand--the consequenceswould be the same as if you performed the marriage ceremony. But say,what answer are we to carry in your name to the most illustrious SignorDon Roderick?"

"My respects----"

"Speak more clearly, Signor Curate."

"That I am disposed, ever disposed, to obedience." And as he spoke thewords he was not very certain himself whether he gave a promise, or onlyuttered an ordinary compliment. The bravoes took, or _appeared_ to takethem, in the more serious sense.

"'Tis very well; good night, Signor Curate," said one of them as heretired, together with his companion. Don Abbondio, who a few minutesbefore would have given one of his eyes to avoid the ruffians, was nowdesirous to prolong the conversation.

"Gentlemen----" he began, as he shut his book. Without again noticinghim, however, they passed on, singing a loose song, of which we will nottranscribe the words. Poor Don Abbondio remained for a moment, as ifspell-bound, and then with heavy and lagging steps took the path whichled towards his home. The reader will better understand the state of hismind, when he shall have learned something more of his disposition, andof the condition of the times in which it was his lot to live.

Don Abbondio was not (as the reader may have perceived) endowed with thecourage of a lion. But from his earliest years he had been sensible thatthe most embarrassing situation in those times was that of an animal,furnished with neither tusks nor talons, at the same time having no wishto be devoured. The arm of the law afforded no protection to a man ofquiet, inoffensive habits, who had no means of making himself feared.Not that laws and penalties were wanting for the prevention of privateviolence: the laws were most express; the offences enumerated, andminutely particularised; the penalties sufficiently extravagant; and ifthat were not enough, the legislator himself, and, a hundred others towhom was committed the execution of the laws, had power to increasethem. The proceedings were studiously contrived to free the judge fromevery thing that might prevent his passing sentence of condemnation; thepassages we have cited from proclamations against the bravoes, may betaken as a faithful specimen of these decrees. Notwithstanding this, or,it may be, in _consequence_ of this, these proclamations, reiterated andreinforced from time to time, served only to proclaim in pompouslanguage the impotence of those who issued them; or, if they producedany immediate effect, it was _that_ of adding to the vexations which thepeaceful and feeble suffered from the disturbers of society. Impunitywas organised and effected in so many ways as to render theproclamations powerless. Such was the consequence of the sanctuaries andasylums; and of the privileges of certain classes, partly acknowledgedby the legal power, partly tolerated in silence, or feebly opposed; but

which, in _fact_, were sustained and guarded by almost every individualwith interested activity and punctilious jealousy. Now this impunity,threatened and assailed, but not destroyed, by these proclamations,would naturally, at every new attack, employ fresh efforts and devicesto maintain itself. The proclamations were efficient, it is true, infettering and embarrassing the honest man, who had neither power inhimself nor protection from others; inasmuch as, in order to reach everyperson, they subjected the movements of each private individual to thearbitrary will of a thousand magistrates and executive officers. But he,who before the commission of his crime had prepared himself a refuge insome convent or palace where bailiffs never dared to enter; or whosimply wore a livery, which engaged in his defence the vanity or theinterest of a powerful family; such a one was free in his actions, andcould laugh to scorn every proclamation. Of those very persons whosepart it was to ensure the execution of these decrees, some belonged bybirth to the privileged class, others were its clients and dependants;and as the latter as well as the former had, from education, from habit,from imitation, embraced its maxims, they would be very careful not toviolate them. Had they however, been bold as heroes, obedient as monks,and devoted as martyrs, they could never have accomplished the executionof the laws, inferior as they were in number to _those_ with whom theymust engage, and with the frequent probability of being abandoned, oreven sacrificed, by him who, in a moment of theoretical abstraction,might require them to act. But, in addition to this, their office wouldbe regarded as a base one in public opinion, and their name stamped withreproach. It was therefore very natural that, instead of risking, nay,throwing away, their lives in a fruitless attempt, they should selltheir inaction, or, rather, their connivance, to the powerful; or, atleast, exercise their authority only on those occasions when it might bedone with safety to themselves; that is, in oppressing the peaceable andthe defenceless.

The man who acts with violence, or who is constantly in fear of violencefrom others, seeks companions and allies. Hence it happened that, duringthese times, individuals displayed so strong a tendency to combinethemselves into classes, and to advance, as far as each one was able,the power of that to which he belonged. The clergy was vigilant in thedefence and extension of its immunities; the nobility, of itsprivileges; the military, of its exemptions; the merchants and artisanswere enrolled in companies and fraternities; the lawyers were united inleagues, and even the physicians formed a corporation. Each of theselittle oligarchies had its own appropriate power,--in each of them theindividual found the advantage of employing for himself, in proportionto his influence and dexterity, the united force of numbers. The morehonest availed themselves of this advantage merely for their defence;the crafty and the wicked profited by it to assure themselves of successin their rogueries, and impunity from their results. The strength,however, of these various combinations was far from being equal; and,especially in the country, the wealthy and overbearing nobleman, with aband of bravoes, and surrounded by peasants accustomed to regardthemselves as subjects and soldiers of their lord, exercised anirresistible power, and set all laws at defiance.

Don Abbondio, neither noble, rich, nor valiant, had from early youthfound himself alone and unaided in such a state of society, like anearthen vessel thrown amidst iron jars; he therefore readily obeyed hisparents, who wished him to become a priest. He did, to say the truth,

not regard the obligations and the noble ends of the ministry to whichhe dedicated himself, but was only desirous to secure the means ofliving, and to connect himself with a powerful and respected class. Butno class provided for the individual, or secured his safety, _further_than to a certain point; none rendered it unnecessary for him to adoptfor himself a system of his own. The system of Don Abbondio consistedchiefly in shunning all disputes; he maintained an unarmed neutrality inall the contests that broke out around him;--between the clergy and thecivil power, between persons in office and nobles and magistrates,bravoes and soldiers, down to the squabbles of the peasantry themselves,terminated by the fist or the knife. By keeping aloof from theoverbearing, by affecting not to notice their acts of violence, bybowing low and with the most profound respect to all whom he met, thepoor man had succeeded in passing over sixty years without encounteringany violent storms; not but that he also had some small portion of gallin his composition; and this continual exercise of patience exacerbatedit to such a degree, that, if he had not had it in his poweroccasionally to give it vent, his health must have suffered. But asthere were a few persons in the world connected with himself whom heknew to be powerless, he could, from time to time, discharge on them hislong pent-up ill-humour. He was, moreover, a severe censor of those whodid not regulate their conduct by his example, provided he could censurewithout danger. According to his creed, the poor fellow who had beencudgelled had been a little imprudent; the murdered man had always beenturbulent; the man who maintained his right against the powerful, andmet with a broken head, must have been somewhat wrong; which is,perhaps, true enough, for in all disputes the line can never be drawnso finely as not to leave a little wrong on both sides. He especiallydeclaimed against those of his confraternity, who, at their own risk,took part with the oppressed against a powerful oppressor. "This," hesaid, "was to purchase trouble with ready money, to kick at snarlingdogs, and an intermeddling in profane things that lowered the dignity ofthe sacred ministry." He had, in short, a favourite maxim, that anhonest man, who looked to himself and minded his own affairs, never metwith any rough encounters.

From all that has been said, we may imagine the effect the meeting justdescribed must have had upon the mind of poor Don Abbondio. Those fiercecountenances, the threats of a lord who was well known not to speakidly, his plan of quiet life and patient endurance disconcerted in aninstant, a difficulty before him from which he saw no possibility ofextrication; all these thoughts rushed confusedly through his mind. "IfRenzo could be quietly dismissed with a refusal, all would be well; buthe will require reasons--and what can I say to him? he too has a head ofhis own; a lamb, if not meddled with--but once attempt to cross him----Oh!--and raving after that Lucy, as much enamoured as---- Young idiots!who, for want of something else to do, fall in love, and must bemarried, forsooth, thinking of nothing else, never concerning themselvesabout the trouble they bring upon an honest man like me. Wretch that Iam! Why should those two scowling faces plant themselves exactly in mypath, and pick a quarrel with me? What have I to do in the matter? Is itI that mean to wive? Why did they not rather go and speak---- Ah! truly,that which is to the purpose always occurs to me after the right time:if I had but thought of suggesting to them to go and bear theirmessage----" But here he was disturbed by the reflection, that to repentof not having been the counsellor and abettor of evil, was tooiniquitous a thing; and he therefore turned the rancour of his thoughts

against the individual who had thus robbed him of his tranquillity. Hedid not know Don Roderick, except by sight and by report; his soleintercourse with him had been to touch chin to breast, and the groundwith the corner of his hat, the few times he had met him on the road.He had, on more than one occasion, defended the reputation of thatSignor against those who, in an under-tone, with sighs and looks raisedto heaven, had execrated some one of his exploits. He had declared ahundred times that he was a respectable cavalier. But at this moment he,in his own heart, readily bestowed upon him all those titles to which hewould never lend an ear from another. Having, amidst the tumult of thesethoughts, reached the entrance of his house, which stood at the end ofthe little glebe, he unlocked the door, entered, and carefully securedit within. Anxious to find himself in society that he could trust, hecalled aloud, "Perpetua, Perpetua," advancing towards the little parlourwhere she was, doubtless, employed in preparing the table for hissupper. Perpetua was, as the reader must be aware, the housekeeper ofDon Abbondio; an affectionate and faithful domestic, who knew how toobey or command as occasion served; to bear the grumbling and whims ofher master at times, and at others to make him bear with hers. Thesewere becoming every day more frequent; she had passed the age of fortyin a single state; the consequences, _she_ said, of having refused allthe offers that had been made her; her _female friends_ asserted thatshe had never found any one willing to take her.

"Coming," said Perpetua, as she set in its usual place on the littletable the flask of Don Abbondio's favourite wine, and moved slowlytoward the parlour door: before she reached it he entered, with steps sodisordered, looks so clouded, and a countenance so changed, that an eyeless practised than that of Perpetua could have discovered at a glancethat something unusual had befallen him.

"Mercy on me! What is it ails my master?"

"Nothing, nothing," said Don Abbondio, as he sank upon his easy chair.

"How, nothing! Would you have me believe that, looking as you do? Somedreadful accident has happened."

"Oh! for the love of Heaven! When I say nothing, it is either nothing,or something I cannot tell."

"That you cannot tell, not even to me? Who will take care of yourhealth? Who will give you advice?"

"Oh! peace, peace! Do not make matters worse. Give me a glass of mywine."

"And you will still pretend to me that nothing is the matter?" saidPerpetua, filling the glass, but retaining it in her hand, as ifunwilling to present it except as the reward of confidence.

"Give here, give here," said Don Abbondio, taking the glass with anunsteady hand, and hastily swallowing its contents.

"Would you oblige me then to go about, asking here and there what it ishas happened to my master?" said Perpetua, standing upright before him,with her hands on her sides, and looking him steadfastly in the face, as

if to extract the secret from his eyes.

"For the love of Heaven, do not worry me, do not kill me with yourpother; this is a matter that concerns--concerns my life."

"Your life!"

"My life."

"You know well, that, when you have frankly confided in me, I havenever----"

"Yes, forsooth, as when----"

Perpetua was sensible she had touched a false string; wherefore,changing suddenly her note, "My dear master," said she, in a moving toneof voice, "I have always had a dutiful regard for you, and if I now wishto know this affair, it is from zeal, and a desire to assist you, togive you advice, to relieve your mind."

The truth is, that Don Abbondio's desire to disburden himself of hispainful secret was as great as that of Perpetua to obtain a knowledge ofit; so that, after having repulsed, more and more feebly, her renewedassaults; after having made her swear many times that she would notbreathe a syllable of it, he, with frequent pauses and exclamations,related his miserable adventure. When it was necessary to pronounce thedread name of him from whom the prohibition came, he required fromPerpetua another and more solemn oath: having uttered it, he threwhimself back on his seat with a heavy sigh, and, in a tone of command,as well as supplication, exclaimed,--

"For the love of Heaven!"--

"Mercy upon me!" cried Perpetua, "what a wretch! what a tyrant! Does henot fear God?"

"Will you be silent? or do you want to ruin me completely?"

"Oh! we are here alone, no one can hear us. But what will my poor masterdo?"

"See there now," said Don Abbondio, in a peevish tone, "see the fineadvice you give me. To ask of me, what I'll do? what I'll do? as if youwere the one in difficulty, and it was for me to help you out!"

"Nay, I could give you my own poor opinion; but then--"

"But--but then, let us know it."

"My opinion would be, that, as every one says our archbishop is a saint,a man of courage, and not to be frightened by an ugly phiz, and who willtake pleasure in upholding a curate against one of these tyrants; Ishould say, and do say, that you had better write him a handsome letter,to inform him as how----"

"Will you be silent! will you be silent! Is this advice to offer a poorman? When I get a pistol bullet in my side--God preserve me!--will the

archbishop take it out?"

"Ah! pistol bullets are not given away like sugarplums; and it werewoful if those dogs should bite every time they bark. If a man knows howto show his teeth, and make himself feared, they hold him in respect: weshould not have been brought to such a pass, if you had stood upon yourrights. Now, all come to us (by your good leave) to----"

"Will you be silent?"

"Certainly; but it is true though, that when the world sees one isalways ready, in every encounter, to lower----"

"Will you be silent? Is this a time for such idle talk?"

"Well, well, you'll think of it to-night; but in the meantime do not bethe first to harm yourself; to destroy your own health: eat a mouthful."

"I'll think of it," murmured Don Abbondio; "certainly I'll think of it.I _must_ think of it;" and he arose, continuing--"No! I'll take nothing,nothing; I've something else to do. But, that this should have fallenupon me----"

"Swallow at least this other little drop," said Perpetua, as she pouredthe wine. "You know it always restores your stomach."

"Oh! there wants other medicine than that, other medicine than that,other medicine than that----"

So saying, he took the light, and muttering, "A pretty business this! Toan honest man like me! And to-morrow, what is to be done?" with otherlike exclamations, he went towards his bedchamber. Having reached thedoor, he stopped a moment, and before he quitted the room, exclaimed,turning towards Perpetua, with his finger on his lips--"For the love ofHeaven, be silent!"

CHAPTER II.

It is related that the Prince of Condé slept soundly the night precedingthe battle of Rocroi; but then, he was greatly fatigued, and moreoverhad made every arrangement for the morrow. It was not thus with DonAbbondio; he only knew the morrow would be a day of trouble, andconsequently passed the night in anxious anticipation. He could not fora moment think of disregarding the menaces of the bravoes, andsolemnising the marriage. To confide to Renzo the occurrence, andconsult with him as to the means--God forbid!--He remembered the warningof the bravo, "not to say one word"--otherwise, _ahem!_ and thisdreadful _ahem_ of the bravo resounded in the ears of Don Abbondio; sothat he already repented of his communication to Perpetua. To fly wasimpossible--and where _could_ he fly? At the thought, a thousandobstacles presented themselves.--After long and painful deliberation, heresolved to endeavour to gain time, by giving Renzo some fancifulreasons for the postponement of the marriage. He recollected that in a

few days more the time would arrive, during which marriages wereprohibited. "And if I can keep this youngster at bay for a few days, Ishall then have two months before me; and in two months who can tellwhat may happen?" He thought of various pretexts for his purpose; andthough they were rather flimsy, he persuaded himself that his authoritywould give them weight, and that his experience would prevail over themind of an ignorant youth. "We will see," said he to himself: "he thinksof his love, but I think of myself; I am, therefore, the party mostinterested; I must call in all my cunning to assist me. I cannot helpit, young man, if you suffer; I must not be the victim." Having somewhatcomposed his mind with this determination, he at length fell asleep. Buthis dreams, alas! how horrible--bravoes, Don Roderick, Renzo, roads,rocks, cries, bullets.

The arousing from sleep, after a recent misfortune, is a bitter moment;the mind at first habitually recurs to its previous tranquillity, but issoon depressed by the thought of the contrast that awaits it. When aliveto a sense of his situation, Don Abbondio recapitulated the plans of thenight, made a better disposal of them, and after having risen, awaitedwith dread and impatience the moment of Renzo's arrival.

Lorenzo, or as he was called, Renzo, did not make him wait long; at anearly hour he presented himself before the curate with the joyfulreadiness of one who was on this day to espouse her whom he loved. Hehad been deprived of his parents in his youth, and now practised thetrade of a weaver of silk, which was, it might be said, hereditary inhis family. This trade had once been very lucrative; and although now onthe decline, a skilful workman might obtain from it a respectablelivelihood. The continual emigration of the tradesmen, attracted to theneighbouring states by promises and privileges, left sufficientemployment for those who remained behind. Besides, Renzo possessed asmall farm, which he had cultivated himself when otherwise unoccupied;so that, for one of his condition, he might be called wealthy: andalthough the last harvest had been more deficient than the precedingones, and the evils of famine were beginning to be felt; yet, from themoment he had given his heart to Lucy, he had been so economical as topreserve a sufficiency of all necessaries, and to be in no danger ofwanting bread. He appeared before Don Abbondio gaily dressed, and with ajoyful countenance. The mysterious and perplexed manner of the curateformed a singular contrast to that of the handsome young man.

"What is the matter now?" thought Renzo; but without waiting to answerhis own question, "Signor Curate," said he, "I am come to know at whathour of the day it will be convenient for you that we should be at thechurch?"

"Of what day do you speak?"

"How! of what day? do you not remember that this is the day appointed?"

"To-day?" replied Don Abbondio, as if he heard it for the first time,"to-day? to-day? be patient, I cannot to-day----"

"You cannot to-day? why not?"

"In the first place I am not well----"

"I am sorry for it; but we shall not detain you long, and you will notbe much fatigued."

"But then--but then----"

"But then, what, sir?"

"There are difficulties."

"Difficulties! How can that be?"

"People should be in our situation, to know how many obstacles there areto these matters; I am too yielding, I think only of removingimpediments, of rendering all things easy, and promoting the happinessof others. To do this I neglect my duty, and am covered with reproachesfor it."

"In the name of Heaven, keep me not thus in suspense, but tell me atonce what is the matter?"

"Do you know how many formalities are required before the marriage canbe celebrated?"

"I must, indeed, know something of them," said Renzo, beginning to growangry, "since you have racked my brains with them abundantly these fewdays back. But are not all things now ready? have you not done all therewas to do?"

"All, all, you expect; but be patient, I tell you. I have been ablockhead to neglect my duty, that I might not cause pain to others;--wepoor curates--we are, as may be said, ever between a hawk and a buzzard.I pity you, poor young man! I perceive your impatience, but mysuperiors----Enough, I have reasons for what I say, but I cannot tellall--we, however, are sure to suffer."

"But tell me what this other formality is, and I will perform itimmediately."

"Do you know how many obstacles stand in the way?"

"How can I know any thing of obstacles?"

"Error, conditio, votum, cognatis, crimen, cultus disparitas, vis,ordo.... Si sit affinis...."

"Oh! for Heaven's sake--how should I understand all this Latin?"

"Be patient, dear Renzo; I am ready to do----all that depends on me.I--I wish to see you satisfied--I wish you well---- And when I thinkthat you were so happy, that you wanted nothing when the whim enteredyour head to be married----"

"What words are these, Signor?" interrupted Renzo, with a look ofastonishment and anger.

"I say, do be patient--I say, I wish to see you happy. In short--inshort, my dear child, I have not been in fault; I did not make the laws.

Before concluding a marriage, we are required to search closely thatthere be no obstacles."

"Now, I beseech you, tell me at once what difficulty has occurred?"

"Be patient--these are not points to be cleared up in an instant. There_will_ be nothing, I hope; but whether or not, we must search into thematter. The passage is clear and explicit,--'antiquam matrimoniumdenunciet----'"

"I'll not hear your Latin."

"But it is necessary to explain to you----"

"But why not do this before? Why tell me all was prepared? Why wait----"

"See there now! to reproach me with my kindness! I have hastened everything to serve you; but--but there has occurred----well, well, Iknow----"

"And what do you wish that I should do?"

"Be patient for a few days. My dear child, a few days are not eternity;be patient."

"For how long a time then?"

"We are coming to a good conclusion," thought Don Abbondio. "Come," saidhe, gently, "in fifteen days I will endeavour----"

"Fifteen days! Oh! this is something new. To tell me now, on the veryday you yourself appointed for my marriage, that I must wait fifteendays! Fifteen," resumed he, with a low and angry voice.

Don Abbondio interrupted him, earnestly seizing his hand, and with animploring tone beseeching him to be quiet. "Come, come, don't be angry;for the love of Heaven! I'll see, I'll see if in a week----"

"And what shall I say to Lucy?" said Renzo, softening.

"That it has been a mistake of mine."

"And to the world?"

"Say also it is my fault; that through too great haste I have made somegreat blunder: throw all the blame on me. Can I do more than this? Comein a week."

"And then there will be no further difficulties?"

"When I say a thing----"

"Well, well, I will be quiet for a week; but be assured, I will be putoff with no further excuses:--for the present, I take my leave." Sosaying, he departed, making a bow to Don Abbondio less profound thanusual, and giving him a look more expressive than respectful.

With a heavy heart he approached the house of his betrothed, his minddwelling on the strange conversation which had just taken place. Thecold and embarrassed reception of Don Abbondio, his constrained andimpatient air, his mysterious hints, all combined to convince him therewas still something he had not been willing to communicate. He stoppedfor a moment, debating with himself whether he should not return andcompel him to be more frank; raising his eyes, however, he beheldPerpetua entering a little garden a few steps distant from the house. Hecalled to her, quickened his pace, and detaining her at the gate,endeavoured to enter into discourse with her.

"Good day, Perpetua; I expected to have received your congratulationsto-day."

"But it must be as God pleases, my poor Renzo."

"I want to ask a favour of you: the Signor Curate has offered reasons Icannot comprehend; will you explain to me the true cause why he isunable or unwilling to marry us to-day?"

"Oh! you think then that I know the secrets of my master."

"I was right in supposing there was a mystery," thought Renzo. "Come,come, Perpetua," continued he, "we are friends; tell me what youknow,--help a poor young man."

"It is a bad thing to be born poor, my dear Renzo."

"That is true," replied he, still more confirmed in hissuspicions--"that is true; but it is not becoming in the clergy tobehave unjustly to the poor."

"Hear me, Renzo; I can tell you nothing, because--I know nothing. But Ican assure you my master would not wrong you or any one; and he is notto blame."

"Who then is to blame?" asked Renzo, carelessly, but listening intentlyfor a reply.

"I have told you already I know nothing. But I may be allowed to speakin defence of my master; poor man! if he has erred, it has been throughtoo great kindness. There are in this world men who are overpowerful,knavish, and who fear not God."

"Overpowerful! knavish!" thought Renzo; "these cannot be hissuperiors."--"Come," said he, with difficulty concealing his increasingagitation, "come, tell me who it is."

"Ah! you would persuade me to speak, and I must not, because--I knownothing. I will keep silence as faithfully as if I had promised to doso. You might put me to the torture, and you could not draw any thingfrom me. Adieu! it is lost time for both of us."

Thus saying, she re-entered the garden hastily, and shut the gate. Renzoturned very softly, lest at the noise of his footsteps she might discernthe road he took: when fairly beyond her hearing, he quickened hissteps, and in a moment was at the door of Don Abbondio's house; he

entered, rushed towards the little parlour where he had left him, andfinding him still there, approached him with a bold and furious manner.

"Eh! eh! what has happened now?" said Don Abbondio.

"Who is this powerful personage?" said Renzo, with the air of oneresolved to obtain an explicit answer; "who is he that forbids me tomarry Lucy?"

"What! what! what!" stammered Don Abbondio, turning pale with surprise.He arose from his chair, and made an effort to reach the door. ButRenzo, who expected this movement, was upon his guard; and locking thedoor, he put the key in his pocket.

"Ah! will you speak now, Signor Curate? Every one knows the affair butmyself; and, by heavens! I'll know it too. Who is it, I say?"

"Renzo, Renzo, for the love of charity, take care what you do; think ofyour soul."

"I must know it at once--this moment." So saying, he placed his hand onhis dagger, but perhaps without intending it.

"Mercy!" exclaimed Don Abbondio, in a stifled voice.

"I _must_ know it."

"Who has told you?"

"Come, no more excuses. Speak plainly and quickly."

"Do you mean to kill me?"

"I mean to know that which I have a right to know."

"But if I speak, I die. Must I not preserve my life?"

"Speak, then."

The manner of Renzo was so threatening and decided, that Don Abbondiofelt there was no possibility of disobeying him. "Promise me--swear,"said he, "never to tell----"

"Tell me, tell me quickly his name, or----"

At this new adjuration, the poor curate, with the trembling look of aman who feels the instrument of the dentist in his mouth, feeblyarticulated, "Don----"

"Don?" replied Renzo, inclining his ear towards him, eager to hear therest. "Don?"

"Don Roderick!" muttered he hastily, trembling at the sound that escapedhis lips.

"Ah! dog!" shouted Renzo; "and how has he done it? what has he said toyou to----"

"What? what?" said Don Abbondio, in an almost contemptuous tone, alreadygaining confidence by the sacrifice he had made. "I wish you were likemyself, you would then meddle with nothing, and certainly you would nothave had so many whims in your head." He, however, related in terriblecolours the ugly encounter; his anger, which had hitherto been subduedby fear, displayed itself as he proceeded; and perceiving that Renzo,between rage and astonishment, remained motionless, with his head bentdown, he continued in a lively manner, "You have made a pretty businessof it, indeed! You have rendered me a notable service. Thus to attack anhonest man, your curate, in his own house! in a sacred place! You havedone a fine thing, truly. To wrest from my mouth, that which Iconcealed, from prudence, for your own good. And now that you know it,what will you do? When I gave you good advice this morning, I hadjudgment for you and me; but believe me, this is no jesting matter, noquestion of right or wrong, but superior power. At all events, open thedoor; give me the key."

"I may have been to blame," replied Renzo with a softened voice, but inwhich might be perceived smothered anger towards his concealed enemy, "Imay have been to blame, but if you had been in my situation----" Hedrew the key from his pocket, and advanced towards the door.

"Swear to me," said Don Abbondio with a serious and anxious face.

"I may have been to blame--forgive me," replied Renzo, moving to depart.

"Swear first," said Don Abbondio, holding him tremblingly by the arm.

"I may have been to blame," said Renzo, freeing himself from his grasp,and immediately springing out of the room.

"Perpetua! Perpetua!" cried Don Abbondio, after having in vain calledback the fugitive. Perpetua did not answer. The poor man was sooverwhelmed by his innumerable difficulties, his increasingperplexities, and so apprehensive of some fresh attack, that heconceived the idea of securing to himself a safe retreat from them all,by going to bed and giving out that he had a fever. His malady, indeed,was not altogether imaginary; the terror of the past day, the anxiouswatching of the night, the dread of the future, had combined toproduce really the effect. Weary and stupified, he slumbered in hislarge chair, muttering occasionally in a feeble but passionate voice,"Perpetua."--Perpetua arrived at last with a great cabbage under herarm, and with as unconcerned a countenance as if nothing had happened.We will spare the reader the reproaches, the accusations, and denialsthat passed between them; it is sufficient that Don Abbondio orderedPerpetua to bolt the door, not to put her foot outside, and if any oneknocked, to reply from the window that the curate was gone to bed with afever. He then slowly ascended the stairs and put himself really in bed,where we will leave him.

Renzo, meanwhile, with hurried steps, and with a mind unsettled anddistracted as to the course he should pursue, approached his home. Thosewho injure others are guilty, not only of the evils they commit, butalso of the effects produced by these evils on the characters of theinjured persons. Renzo was a quiet and peaceful youth, but now hisnature appeared changed, and his thoughts dwelt only on deeds of

violence. He would have run to the house of Don Roderick to assault himthere; but he remembered that it was a fortress, furnished with bravoeswithin, and well guarded without; that only those known to be friendsand servants could enter without the minutest scrutiny; and that noteven a tradesman could be seen there without being examined from head tofoot; and he, above all, would be, alas! but too well known. He thenimagined himself placed behind a hedge, with his arquebuss in his hand,waiting till Roderick should pass by alone; rejoicing internally at thethought, he pictured to himself an approaching footstep; the villainappears, he takes aim, fires, and he falls; he exults a moment over hisdying struggles, and then escapes for his life beyond the confines! AndLucy? This name recalled his wiser and better thoughts: he rememberedthe last instructions of his parents; he thought of God, the HolyVirgin, and the Saints; and he tremblingly rejoiced that he had beenguilty of the deed only in imagination. But how many hopes, promises,and anticipations did the idea of Lucy suggest? And this day so ardentlydesired! How announce to her the dreadful news? And then, what plan topursue? How make her his own in spite of the power of this wicked lord?And now a tormenting suspicion passed through his mind. Don Roderickmust have been instigated to this injury by a brutal passion for Lucy!And she! He could not for a moment endure the maddening thought that shehad given him the slightest encouragement. But was she not informed ofhis designs? Could he have conceived his infamous purpose, and haveadvanced so far towards its completion, without her knowledge? And Lucy,his own beloved, had never uttered a syllable to him concerning it!

These reflections prevailing in his mind, he passed by his own house,which was situated in the centre of the village, and arrived at that ofLucy, which was at the opposite extremity. It had a small court-yard infront, which separated it from the road, and which was encircled by alow wall. Entering the yard, Renzo heard a confused murmur of voices inthe upper chamber; he rightly supposed it to be the wedding company,and he could not resolve to appear before them with such a countenance.A little girl, who was standing at the door, ran towards him, cryingout, "The bridegroom! the bridegroom!" "Hush, Betsy, hush," said Renzo,"come hither; go to Lucy, and whisper in her ear--but let no one hearyou--whisper in her ear, that I wish to speak with her in the lowerchamber, and that she must come at once." The little girl hastilyascended the stairs, proud of having a secret commission to execute.Lucy had just come forth, adorned from the hands of her mother, andsurrounded by her admiring friends. These were playfully endeavouring tosteal a look at the blooming bride; while she, with the timidity ofrustic modesty, attempted to conceal her blushing countenance with herbending arm, from beneath which a smiling mouth nevertheless appeared.Her black tresses, parted on her white forehead, were folded up inmultiplied circles on the back of her head, and fastened with pins ofsilver, projecting on every side like the rays of the sun: this is stillthe custom of the Milanese peasantry. Around her throat she had anecklace of garnets, alternated with beads of gold filagree; she wore aboddice embroidered in flowers, the sleeves tied with ribands; a shortpetticoat of silk, with numerous minute plaits; crimson stockings, andembroidered silk slippers. But beyond all these ornaments was the modestand beautiful joy depicted on her countenance; a joy, however, troubledby a slight shade of anxiety. The little Betsy intruded herself into thecircle, managed to approach Lucy, and communicated her message. "I shallreturn in a moment," said Lucy to her friends, as she hastily quittedthe room. On perceiving the altered and unquiet appearance of Renzo,

"What is the matter?" said she, not without a presentiment of evil.

"Lucy," replied Renzo, "all is at a stand, and God knows whether weshall ever be man and wife!"

"How!" said Lucy, alarmed. Renzo related briefly the history of themorning; she listened with anguish: when he uttered the name of DonRoderick, "Ah!" exclaimed she, blushing and trembling, "has it then cometo this?"

"Then you knew!" said Renzo.

"Too well," replied Lucy.

"What did you know?"

"Do not make me speak now, do not make me weep! I'll call my mother anddismiss the company. We must be alone."

As she departed, Renzo whispered, "And you have never spoken of it tome!"

"Ah, Renzo!" replied Lucy, turning for a moment to gaze at him.

He understood well what this action meant; it was as if she had said,"Can you doubt me?"

Meanwhile the good Agnes (so the mother of Lucy was called) haddescended the stairs, to ascertain the cause of her daughter'sdisappearance. She remained with Renzo; while Lucy returned to thecompany, and, assuming all the composure she could, said to them, "TheSignor Curate is indisposed, and the wedding cannot take place to-day."The ladies departed, and lost no time in relating amongst the gossips ofthe neighbourhood all that had occurred, while they made particularenquiries respecting the reality of Don Abbondio's sickness. The truthof this cut short the conjectures which they had already begun tointimate by brief and mysterious hints.

CHAPTER III.

Lucy entered the lower room as Renzo was sorrowfully informing Agnes ofthat, to which she as sorrowfully listened. Both turned towards her fromwhom they expected an explanation which could not but be painful; thesuspicions of both were, however, excited in the midst of their grief,and the displeasure they felt towards Lucy differed only according totheir relative situation. Agnes, although anxious to hear her daughterspeak, could not avoid reproaching her--"To say nothing to thy mother!"

"Now, I will tell you all," said Lucy, wiping her eyes with her apron.

"Speak, speak!" cried at once her mother and her lover.

"Holy Virgin!" exclaimed Lucy, "that it should come to this!"--and with

a voice interrupted by tears, she related that a few days previously, asshe returned from weaving, and was loitering behind her companions, DonRoderick came up with her, in company with another gentleman; that theformer sought to engage her in idle conversation; that she quickened herpace, without lending him an ear, and rejoined her companions; in themean while she heard the other gentleman laugh, and Don Roderick say,"I'll lay a wager with you." The day following, on their return, theymet them again, but Lucy kept in the midst of her companions, with herhead down; the other gentleman burst into laughter, and Don Rodericksaid, "We will see, we will see." "Happily for me," continued Lucy,"this day was the last of the weaving. I related the adventureimmediately----"

"To whom didst thou relate it?" asked Agnes quickly, indignant at theidea of any one being preferred before her as a confidant.

"To Father Christopher, in confession, mamma," replied Lucy, in a toneof apology. "I told him all, the last time you and I went to the churchof the convent; you may perhaps recollect my contrivances for delay onthat morning, until there should pass some villagers in whose company wemight go into the street; because I was so afraid----"

The indignation of Agnes subsided at once, at the mention of a name sorevered as Father Christopher's. "Thou didst well, my child," said she;"but why not tell it also to thy mother?"

For this, Lucy had had two very good reasons; the one, a desire not todisturb and frighten her mother with a circumstance she could not haveprevented; the other, the dread of placing a secret, which she wished tobe buried in her own bosom in danger of becoming known to all thevillage: of these two reasons she only alleged the first.

"And could I," said she, turning to Renzo, in a gentle and reproachfulvoice, "could I speak to you of this?--Alas! that you should know itnow!"

"And what did the Father say to you?" asked Agnes.

"He told me to endeavour to hasten my nuptials, and in the mean while tokeep myself within doors; to pray much to God; and he hoped that if DonRoderick should not see me, he would cease to think of me. And it wasthen," continued she, turning again towards Renzo, without, however,raising her eyes, and blushing deeply, "it was then that I compelledmyself, at the risk of appearing very forward, to request you toconclude the marriage before the appointed time. Who can tell what youmust have thought of me? But I did it for the best, and from advice--andthis morning I little thought----" She could articulate no longer, andburst into a flood of tears.

"Ah! the scoundrel! the villain!" exclaimed Renzo, pacing the room in aviolent paroxysm of rage. He stopped suddenly before Lucy, regarded herwith a countenance agitated by various passions, and said, "This is thelast wicked deed this wretch will perform."

"Ah! no, Renzo, for the love of Heaven!" cried Lucy; "no, no, for thelove of Heaven! There is a God who watches over the oppressed; but doyou think he will protect us if we do evil?"

"No, no, for the love of Heaven!" repeated Agnes.

"Renzo," said Lucy, with a more resolved and tranquil air, "you have atrade, and I know how to work: let us go away into some distant place,that he may hear of us no more."

"Ah, Lucy! but we are not yet man and wife! If we were married, then,indeed----" Lucy relapsed into tears, and all three remained silent; thedeep despondency of their countenances formed a mournful contrast to thefestive character of their dress.

"Hear me, my children; listen to me," said Agnes, after a few moments;"I came into the world before you, and I know it a little better thanyou do. The devil is not so frightful as they paint him. To us poorpeople the skeins appear more entangled, because we do not know whereto look for the end; but sometimes advice from a learned man----I knowwhat I mean to say.--Do as I tell you, Renzo; go to Lecco; find theDoctor _Azzecca Garbugli_[2]; relate to him----But you must not call himby this name--it is a nick-name. Say to the doctor----what do they callhim? Oh dear! I can't think of his real name, every one calls him_Azzecca Garbugli_. Well, well, find this tall, stiff, bald doctor, witha red nose, and a face as red----"

[2] Seek quarrel.

"I know the man by sight," said Renzo.

"Well, very well," continued Agnes, "there's a man for you! I have seenmore than one troubled wretch who did not know which way to turnhimself; I have known him remain an hour with the Doctor _AzzeccaGarbugli_ (be careful you don't call him so), and go away laughing athimself for his uneasiness. Take with you these fowls; I expected tohave wrung their necks, poor little things! for the banquet of to-night;however, carry them to him, because one must never go empty-handed tothese gentlemen. Relate to him all that has happened, and he will tellyou at once that which would never enter our heads in a year."

Renzo and Lucy approved of this advice; Agnes, proud of having given it,with great complacency took the poor fowls one by one from the coop,tied their legs together as if she were making a nosegay, and consignedthem to his hands. After having exchanged words of hope, he departed,avoiding the high road and crossing the fields, so as not to attractnotice. As he went along, he had leisure to dwell on his misfortunes,and revolve in his mind his anticipated interview with the Doctor_Azzecca Garbugli_. I leave the reader to imagine the condition of theunfortunate fowls swinging by the legs with their heads downwards in thehands of a man agitated by all the tumults of passion; and whose armmoved more in accordance with the violence of his feelings, than withsympathy for the unhappy animals whose heads became conscious of sundryterrific shocks, which they resented by pecking at one another,--apractice too frequent with companions in misfortune.

He arrived at the village, asked for the house of the doctor, whichbeing pointed out to him, he proceeded thither. On entering, heexperienced the timidity so common to the poor and illiterate at thenear approach to the learned and noble; he forgot all the speeches he

had prepared, but giving a glance at the fowls, he took courage. Heentered the kitchen, and demanded of the maid servant, "If he couldspeak with the Signor Doctor?" As if accustomed to similar gifts, sheimmediately took the fowls out of his hand, although Renzo drew themback, wishing the doctor to know that it was he who brought them. Thedoctor entered as the maid was saying, "Give here, and pass into thestudy." Renzo bowed low to him; he replied with a kind "Come in, myson," and led the way into an adjoining chamber. This was a large room,on the three walls of which were distributed portraits of the twelveCæsars, while the fourth was covered with a large bookcase of old anddusty books; in the middle stood a table laden with memorials, libels,and proclamations, with three or four seats around; on one side of itwas a large arm-chair with a high and square back, terminated at eachcorner by ornaments of wood in the fashion of horns; the nails which hadfallen out here and there from its leathern covering, left the cornersof it at liberty to roll themselves up in all directions. The doctor wasin his morning gown, that is, enveloped in a faded toga, which hadserved him long since to appear in at Milan, on some great occasion. Heclosed the door, and encouraged the young man with these words: "My son,tell me your case."

"I wish to speak a word to you in confidence."

"Well, say on," replied the doctor, as he seated himself in thearm-chair. Renzo stood before the table twirling his hat in his hand,and began, "I wish to know from one as learned as yourself----"

"Tell me the affair just as it is," interrupted the doctor, "in as fewwords as possible."

"You must pardon me, Signor Doctor; we poor people know not how to speakto such as you are. I wish then to know----"

"Bless the people! they are all alike; instead of relating facts, theyask questions; and that because their own opinions are already settled!"

"Excuse me, Signor Doctor. I wish, then, to know if there is apunishment for threatening a curate, to prevent him from performing amarriage ceremony?"

"I understand," said the doctor, who in truth had _not_ understood--"Iunderstand." And suddenly assuming an air of seriousness and importance,"A serious case, my son--a case contemplated. You have done well to cometo me; it is a clear case, noticed in a hundred proclamations, and inone, of the year just elapsed, by the actual governor. You shall see,you shall see! Where can it be?" said he, plunging his hand amidst thechaos of papers; "it must surely be here, as it is a decree of greatimportance. Ah! here it is, here it is!" He unfolded it, looked at thedate, and with a serious face exclaimed, "Fifteenth of October, 1627.Yes, yes, this is it; a new edict; these are those which causeterror--Do you know how to read, my son?"

"A little, Signor Doctor."

"Well now, come behind me, and you will see for yourself."

Holding the proclamation extended before him, he began to read,

stammering rapidly over some passages, and pausing distinctly with greatexpression on others, according to the necessity of the case.

"_Although by the proclamation published by order of the Signor Duke diFeria, on the 14th of December, 1620, and ratified by the mostillustrious, and most excellent lord, Signor Gonsalez Fernandez deCordova,_ &c. &c.--_had by extraordinary and rigorous remedies providedagainst the oppressions, exactions, and other tyrannical acts committedagainst the devoted vassals of His Majesty; the frequency of theexcesses, however,_ &c. &c., _has arrived at such a point that HisExcellency is under the necessity,_ &c. &c._--wherefore, with theconcurrence of the Senate and Convention,_ &c. &c._--has resolved topublish the present decree." "And from the tyrannical acts which theskill of many in the villages, as well as in the cities._"--"Do youhear"--umph--"_exact and oppress the weak in various ways, makingviolent contracts of purchase, of rent,_ &c."--"Where is it? Ah! here itis, listen, listen,"--"_who, whether matrimony follow or not_."

"Ah! that's my case!" said Renzo.

"Listen, listen, here is more; now we will find the punishment."Umph--"_that they leave the place of their abode_, &c. &c.--_that if onepays a debt he must not be molested_." "All this has nothing to do withus. Ah! here it is!" "_the priest refusing to do that to which he isobliged by his office_,"--"Eh?"

"It appears the proclamation was made purposely for me."

"Ah! is it not so? listen, listen." "_And other similar oppressionswhich flow from the vassals, nobility, middle and lower classes._" "Noneescape, they are all here--it is like the valley of Jehoshaphat. Hearnow the penalty." "_For all these and other similar evil deeds, whichhaving been prohibited, it is nevertheless necessary to exact withrigour_, &c.--_His Excellency, not annulling, orders and commands, thatwhoever the offenders be, they shall be subjected to pecuniary andcorporal punishment--to banishment, the galleys, or to death_," "a meretrifle!" "_at the will of His Excellency, or of the Senate. And fromthis there is no escape_, &c. &c." "And see here the signature,""_Gonsalez Fernandez de Cordova_;" "and lower down," "_Platonas_;" "andhere again"--"_Videt Ferrar_," "nothing is wanting." Whilst the doctorwas reading, Renzo had kept his eyes on the paper, seeking to ascertainfor himself its real meaning. The doctor, perceiving his new client moreattentive than dismayed, marvelled greatly. "He must be enrolled as oneof the bravoes," said he to himself; "Ah! ah!" exclaimed he, addressingRenzo, "you have shaved off the long lock! Well, well, it was prudent;but placing yourself in my hands, you need not have done so. The case isa serious one--you can have no idea how much resolution is required toconduct these matters wisely."

To understand this mistake of the doctor's, it should be known, that thebravoes by profession used to wear a long lock of hair, which theypulled over the face as a mask in enterprises that required prudence aswell as strength. The proclamation had not been silent with regard tothis custom.

"_His Excellency commands, that whosoever shall wear hair of such alength as to cover the forehead to the eyebrows, will incur the penalty

of a fine of three hundred crowns; in case of incapability of payment,three years in the galleys for the first offence; and for the second, inaddition to the aforesaid, greater punishments still, at the will of HisExcellency._" The long lock had become a distinctive mark of the looseand disorderly.

"Indeed, indeed," replied Renzo, "I have never worn a long lock in mylife."

"I can do nothing," replied the doctor, shaking his head, with a knowingand rather impatient smile, "nothing, if you do not trust me. He whoutters falsehoods to the doctor is a fool who will tell the truth to thejudge. It is necessary to relate things plainly to the lawyer, but itrests with us to render them more intricate. If you wish me to help you,you must tell all from beginning to end, as to your confessor: you mustname the person who commissioned you to do the deed; doubtless he is aperson of consequence; and, considering this, I will go to his house toperform an act of duty. I will not betray you at all, be assured; I willtell him I come to implore his protection for a poor calumniated youth;and we will together use the necessary means to finish the affair in asatisfactory manner. You understand; in securing himself, he willlikewise secure you. If, however, the business has been all your own, Iwill not withdraw my protection: I have extricated others from worsedifficulties; provided you have not offended a person of_consequence_;--you understand--I engage to free you from allembarrassment, with a little expense--you understand. As to the curate,if he is a person of judgment, he will keep his own counsel; if he is afool, we will take care of him. One may escape clear out of everytrouble; but for this, a _man_, a _man_ is necessary. Your case is avery, very serious one--the edict speaks plainly; and if the thingrested between you and the law, to be candid, it would go hard with you.If you wish to pass smoothly--money and obedience!"

Whilst the doctor poured forth this rhapsody, Renzo had been regardinghim with mute astonishment, as the countryman watches the juggler, whomhe sees cramming his mouth with handful after handful of tow; when, lo!he beholds immediately drawn forth from the same mouth a never-endingline of riband. When at last he perceived his meaning, he interruptedhim with, "Oh! Signor Doctor, how you have misunderstood me! the matteris directly the reverse; I have threatened no one--not I--I never dosuch things; ask my companions, all of them, and they will tell you Inever had any thing to do with the law. The injury is mine, and I havecome to you to know how I can obtain justice, and am well satisfied tohave seen this proclamation."

"The devil!" exclaimed the doctor, opening wide his eyes; "what a cockand a bull story you have made! So it is; you are all alike: is itpossible you can't tell a plain fact?"

"But, Signor Doctor, you must pardon me, you have not given me time; nowI will tell you all. Know, then, that I was to have been marriedto-day"--and here his voice trembled--"was to have been married to-dayto a young person to whom I have been some time betrothed; to-day wasthe day fixed upon by the Signor Curate, and every thing was inreadiness. The Signor Curate began to make excuses--and--not to wearyyou--I compelled him to tell me the cause; and he confessed that he hadbeen forbidden, on pain of death, to perform the ceremony. This powerful

Don Roderick----"

"Eh!" hastily interrupted the doctor, contracting his brow and wrinklinghis red nose, "away with you; what have I to do with these idle stories?Tell them to your companions, and not to one of my condition. Begone; doyou think I have nothing to do but listen to tales of this sort----"

"I protest----"

"Begone, I say; what have I to do with your protestations? I wash myhands from them!" and pacing the room, he rubbed his hands together, asif really performing that act. "Hereafter learn when to speak; and donot take a gentleman by surprise."

"But hear me, hear me," vainly repeated Renzo.

The doctor, still growling, pushed him towards the door, set it wideopen, called the maid, and said to her, "Return this man immediatelywhat he brought, I will have nothing to do with it." The woman had neverbefore been required to execute a similar order, but she did nothesitate to obey; she took the fowls and gave them to Renzo with acompassionate look, as if she had said, "You certainly have made somevery great blunder." Renzo wished to make apologies; but the doctor wasimmovable. Confounded, therefore, and more enraged than ever, he tookback the fowls and departed, to render an account of the ill success ofhis expedition.

At his departure, Agnes and Lucy had exchanged their nuptial robes fortheir humble daily habits, and then, sorrowful and dejected, occupiedthemselves in suggesting fresh projects. Agnes expected great resultsfrom Renzo's visit to the doctor; Lucy thought that it would be well tolet Father Christopher know what had happened, as he was a man who wouldnot only advise, but assist whenever he could serve the unfortunate;Agnes assented, but how was it to be accomplished? the convent was twomiles distant, and at this time _they_ certainly could neither of themhazard a walk thither. Whilst they were weighing the difficulties, someone knocked at the door, and they heard a low but distinct _DeoGracias_. Lucy, imagining who it was, hastened to open it; and, bowinglow, there entered a capuchin collector of contributions, with hiswallet swung over his left shoulder. "Oh! brother Galdino!" said Agnes."The Lord be with you," said the brother; "I come for your contributionof nuts."

"Go, get the nuts for the fathers," said Agnes. Lucy obeyed; but beforeshe quitted the room, she gave her mother a kind and impressive look, asmuch as to say, "Be secret."

The capuchin, looking significantly at Agnes, said, "And the wedding? Itwas to have taken place to-day; what has happened?"

"The curate is sick, and we are obliged to defer it," replied the dame,in haste; "but what success in the contributions?" continued she,anxious to change the subject, which she would willingly have prolonged,but for Lucy's earnest look.

"Very poor, good dame, very poor. This is all," said he, swinging thewallet from his shoulder--"this is all; and for this I have been obliged

to knock at ten doors."

"But the year is a scarce one, brother Galdino, and when we have tostruggle for bread, our alms are necessarily small."

"If we wish abundance to return, my good dame, we must give alms. Do younot know the miracle of the nuts, which happened many years ago in ourconvent of Romagna?"

"No, in truth; tell me."

"Well you must know, then, that in this convent there was one of ourfathers who was a saint; he was called Father Macario. One winter's day,passing by a field of one of our patrons,--a worthy man he was,--he sawhim standing near a large nut tree, and four peasants with their axesraised to level it to the ground. 'What are you doing to the poor tree?'demanded father Macario. 'Why, father, it is unfruitful, and I am aboutto cut it down.' 'Do not do so, do not do so,' said the father; 'I tellyou that next year it will bear more nuts than leaves. The masterordered the workmen to throw at once the earth on the roots which hadbeen already bared; and, calling after the Father Macario, said, 'FatherMacario, the half of the crop shall be for the convent.' The predictionwas noised about, and every one went to look at the tree. In fact, whenspring arrived, there were flowers in abundance, and afterwards nuts inabundance! But there was a greater miracle yet, as you shall hear. Theowner, who, before the nut season, was called hence to enjoy the fruitsof his charity, left a son of a very different character from himself.Now, at the time of harvest, the collector went to receive his appointedportion; but the son affected entire ignorance, and presumptuouslyreplied, he never had understood that the capuchins knew how to makenuts. Now guess what happened then. One day he had invited to dinnersome friends, and, making merry, he amused them with the story of thenuts; they desired to visit his granary, to behold his abundance; he ledthe way, advanced towards the corner where they had been placed,looked--and what do you think he saw?--a heap of dry nut leaves! Was notthis a miracle? And the convent gained, instead of suffering loss; theprofusion of nuts bestowed upon it in consequence was so great, that oneof our patrons, compassionating the poor collector, gave him a mule toassist in carrying them home. And so much oil was made, that it wasfreely given to the poor; like the sea, which receives waters from everypart, and distributes abundantly to the rivers."

Lucy now reappeared with her apron so loaded with nuts, that she couldwith difficulty support the burthen. Whilst Friar Galdino untied hiswallet to receive them, Agnes cast an astonished and displeased glanceat her for her prodigality; she returned it with a look which seemed tosay, "I will satisfy you." The friar was liberal of thanks, and,replacing his wallet, was about to depart, when Lucy called him back. "Iwish you to do me a service," said she; "I wish you to say to FatherChristopher that I have a great desire to speak with him, and requesthim to have the goodness to come hither immediately, as it is impossiblefor me to go to the convent."

"Willingly; an hour shall not elapse before Father Christopher shall beinformed of your wish."

"I rely on you."

"Trust me," said he, "I will be faithful," and moved off, bending underthe increased weight of his wallet. We must not suppose, from thereadiness with which Lucy sent this request to Father Christopher, andthe equal readiness of Father Galdino to carry it, that the father was aperson of no consequence; on the contrary, he was a man of muchauthority amongst his companions, and throughout all the neighbourhood.To serve the feeble, and to be served by the powerful; to enter thepalace and the hut; to be at one time a subject of pastime, and atanother regarded with profound respect; to seek alms, and to bestowthem;--to all these vicissitudes a capuchin was well accustomed. Thename of _Friar_, at this period, was uttered with the greatest respect,and with the most bitter contempt; of both of which sentiments, perhaps,the capuchins were, more than any other order, the objects. Theypossessed no property, wore a coarser habit than others, and made a moreopen profession of humility; they therefore exposed themselves, in agreater degree, to the veneration or the scorn which might result fromthe various characters among men.

The Friar Galdino being gone, "Such a quantity of nuts!" exclaimedAgnes, "and in a year of scarcity!"--"I beg pardon," replied Lucy; "butif we had been as penurious as others in our charity, who can tell howlong the friar would have been in reaching home, or, amongst all thegossipings, whether he would have remembered----"

"True, true, it was a good thought; and besides, charity always producesgood fruit," said Agnes, who, with all her defects, was a kind-heartedwoman, and would have sacrificed every thing she had in the world forthe sake of her child, in whom she had reposed all her happiness.

Renzo entered at this moment, with an angry and mortified countenance."Pretty advice you gave me!" said he to Agnes. "You sent me to a fineman, indeed! to one truly who aids the distressed!" And he brieflyrelated his interview with the doctor. The dame, astonished at theissue, endeavoured to prove that the advice was good, and that thefailure must have been owing to Renzo himself. Lucy interrupted thedebate, by informing him of her message to Father Christopher: he seizedwith avidity the new hopes inspired by the expectation of assistancefrom so holy a man. "But if the father," said he, "should not extricateus from our difficulties, I will do it myself by some means or other."Both mother and daughter implored him to be patient and prudent.

"To-morrow," said Lucy, "Father Christopher will certainly be here, andhe will no doubt suggest to us some plan of action which we ourselveswould not have thought of in a year."

"I hope so," said Renzo; "but if not, I will obtain redress, or findanother to do it for me; for surely there must be justice to be had inthe world."

Their mournful conversation might have continued much longer, butapproaching night warned him to depart.

"Good night!" said Lucy mournfully, to Renzo, who could hardly resolveto go.

"Good night!" replied he, yet more sadly.

"Some saint will watch over us," said she. "Be patient and prudent." Themother added some advice of the like nature. But the disappointedbridegroom, with a tempest in his heart, left them, repeating thestrange proposition--"Surely, there's justice in the world." So true isit that, under the influence of great misfortune, men no longer knowwhat they say.

CHAPTER IV.

The sun had not yet risen above the horizon, when Father Christopherleft the convent of Pescarenico, to go to the cottage where he was soanxiously expected. Pescarenico is a small hamlet on the left bank ofthe Adda, or, rather, of the Lake, a few steps below the bridge; a groupof houses, inhabited for the most part by fishermen, and adorned hereand there with nets spread out to dry. The convent was situated (thebuilding still subsists) at a short distance from them, half way betweenLecco and Bergamo.

The sky was clear and serene. As the sun rose behind the mountain, itsrays brightened the opposite summits, and thence rapidly spreadthemselves over the declivities and valleys; a light autumn breezeplayed through the leaves of the mulberry trees, and brought them to theground. The vineyards were still brilliant with leaves of various hues;and the newly made nets appeared brown and distinct amid the fields ofstubble, which were white and shining with the dew. The scene wasbeautiful; but the misery of the inhabitants formed a sad contrast toit. At every moment you met pale and ragged beggars, some grown old inthe trade, others youthful, and induced to it from extreme necessity.They passed quietly by Father Christopher, and although they had nothingto hope from him, since a capuchin never touches money, they bowed lowin thanks for the alms they had received, or might hereafter receive atthe convent. The spectacle of the labourers scattered in the fields wasstill more mournful; some were sowing thinly and sparingly their seed,as if hazarding that which was too precious; others put the spade intothe earth with difficulty, and wearily turned up the clods. The pale andsickly child was leading the meagre cattle to the pasture ground, and ashe went along plucked carefully the herbs found in his path, as food forhis family. This melancholy picture of human misery increased thesadness of Father Christopher, who, when he left the convent, had beenfilled with presentiments of evil.

But why did he feel so much for Lucy? And why, at the first notice, didhe hasten to her with as much solicitude as if he had been sent for bythe Father Provincial. And who was this Father Christopher? We mustendeavour to satisfy all these enquiries.

Father Christopher, of ----, was a man nearer sixty than fifty years ofage. His head was shaven, with the exception of the band of hair allowedto grow round it like a crown, as was the custom of the capuchins; theexpression of his countenance was habitually that of deep humility,although occasionally there passed over it flashes of pride andinquietude, which were, however, succeeded by a deeper shade of

self-reproach and lowliness. His long grey beard gave more character tothe shape of the upper part of his head, on which habitual abstinencehad stamped a strong expression of gravity. His sunken eyes were for themost part bent to the earth, but brightened at times with unexpectedvivacity, which he ever appeared to endeavour to repress. His name,before entering the convent, had been Ludovico; he was the son of amerchant of ----, who, having accumulated great wealth, had renouncedtrade in the latter part of his life, and having resolved to live like agentleman, he studied every means to cause his former mode of life tobe forgotten by those around him. He could not, however, forget ithimself; the shop, the goods, the day-book, the yard measure, rose tohis memory, like the shade of Banquo to Macbeth, amidst the pomp of thetable and the smiles of his parasites; whose continual effort it was toavoid any word which might appear to allude to the former condition ofthe host. Ludovico was his only child: he caused him to be noblyeducated, as far as the laws and customs permitted him to do so; anddied, bequeathing him a splendid fortune. Ludovico had contracted thehabits and feelings of a gentleman, and the flatterers who hadsurrounded him from infancy had accustomed him to the greatest deferenceand respect. But he found the scene changed when he attempted to minglewith the nobility of the city; and that in order to live in theircompany he must school himself to patience and submission, and bear withcontumely on every occasion. This agreed neither with his education norhis disposition. He retired from them in disgust, but unwillingly,feeling that such should naturally have been his companions; he thenresolved to outdo them in pomp and magnificence, thereby increasing theenmity with which they had already regarded him. His open and violentnature soon engaged him in more serious contests: he sincerely abhorredthe extortions and injuries committed by those to whom he had opposedhimself; he therefore habitually took part with the weak against thepowerful, so that by degrees he had constituted himself the defender ofthe oppressed, and the vindicator of their wrongs. The office wasonerous; and fruitful in evil thoughts, quarrels, and enmities againsthimself. But, besides this external warfare, he perhaps suffered stillmore from inward conflicts; for often, in order to compass his objects,he was obliged to adopt measures of circumvention and violence, whichhis conscience disapproved. He was under the painful necessity ofkeeping in pay a band of ruffians for his own security, as well as toaid him in his enterprises; and for these purposes he was necessarilyobliged to select the boldest, that is, the vilest, and to live withvagabonds from a love of justice; so that, disgusted with the world andits conflicts, he had many times seriously thought of entering somemonastery, and retiring from it for ever. Such intentions were morestrongly entertained on the failure of some of his enterprises, or theperception of his own danger, or the annoyance of his viciousassociates, and would probably have still continued _intentions_, butfor one of the most serious and terrible events of his hazardous mode oflife.

He was walking one day through the streets of the city, accompanied by aformer shopman, who had been transformed by his father into a steward,followed by two bravoes. The name of the shopman was Christopher; he wasa man about fifty years of age, devoted to the master whom he had tendedin infancy, and upon whose liberality he supported himself, his wife,and a large family of children. Ludovico saw a gentleman approaching ata distance, with whom he had never spoken in his life, but whom he hatedfor his arrogance and pride, which hatred the other cordially returned.

He had in his train four bravoes; he advanced with a haughty step, andan expression of insolence and disdain on his countenance. It wasLudovico's right, being on the left side, to pass nearest the wall,according to the custom of the day, and every one was tenacious of thisprivilege. As they met they stopped face to face, like two figures on abass relief, neither of them being disposed to yield to the other. Thegentleman, eyeing Ludovico proudly and imperiously, said, with acorresponding tone of voice, "Pass on the outside."

"Pass there yourself," replied Ludovico, "the street is mine."

"With persons of your condition the street is always mine."

"Yes, if your arrogance were a law to others."

The attendants of each stood still, with their hands on their daggers,prepared for battle. The passers-by retreated to a distance to watch theevent.

"Pass on, vile mechanic, or I will teach you the civility due to agentleman."

"You lie; I am not vile."

"Ha! Do you give me the lie? If you were a gentleman I would soon settlematters with my sword."

"You are a coward also, or you would not hesitate to support by deedsthe insolence of your words."

"Throw this rascal in the dirt," said the gentleman, turning to hisfollowers.

"Let us see who will dare to do so," said Ludovico, stepping back andlaying his hand on his sword.

"Rash man," cried the other, unsheathing his own, "I will break this inpieces when it shall have been stained with your base blood."

They rushed violently on each other; the servants of both sprang to thedefence of their masters. The combat was unequal in numbers, and alsounequal from Ludovico's desire to defend himself rather than to woundhis enemy; whilst the latter intended nothing less than murder. Ludovicowas warding off the dagger of one of the bravoes, after having receiveda slight scratch on the cheek, when his enemy thrust at him from behind;Christopher, seeing his master's peril, went to his assistance; uponthis the anger of the enraged cavalier was turned against the shopman,and he thrust him through the heart with his sword. Ludovico, as ifbeside himself at the sight, buried his weapon in the breast of themurderer, who fell almost at the same instant with the poor Christopher!The attendants of the gentleman, beholding him on the ground, took toflight; and Ludovico found himself alone, in the midst of a crowd, withtwo bodies lying at his feet.

"What has happened? One--two--he has been thrust through the body. Whois killed? A nobleman.--Holy Virgin! what destruction! who seeks,finds.--A moment pays all.--What a wound!--It must have been a serious

affair!--And this unfortunate man!--Mercy! what a spectacle!--Save, savehim.--It will go hard with him also.--See how he is wounded--he iscovered with blood!--Escape, poor man, escape; do not let yourself betaken." These words expressed the common suffrage, and with advice camealso assistance; the affair had taken place near a church of thecapuchins, an asylum impenetrable to the officers of justice. Themurderer, bleeding and stupified, was carried thither by the crowd; thebrotherhood received him from their hands with this recommendation, "Heis an honest man who has made a proud rascal cold; but he did it in hisown defence."

Ludovico had never before shed blood, and although in these times murderwas a thing so common that all ceased to wonder at it, yet theimpression which he received from the recollection of the dying (dyingthrough his instrumentality,) was new and indescribable; a revelation offeelings hitherto unknown. The fall of his enemy, the alteration ofthose features, passing in a moment from angry threatenings to thesolemn stillness of death; this was a spectacle which wrought aninstantaneous change in the soul of the murderer. Whilst they werecarrying him to the convent he had been insensible to what was passing;returning to his senses, he found himself in a bed of the infirmary, inthe hands of a friar who was dressing his wounds. Another, whoseparticular duty it was to administer comfort to the dying, had beencalled to the scene of combat. He returned in a short time, andapproaching Ludovico's bed, said, "Console yourself; he has died inpeace, has forgiven you, and hoped for your forgiveness." At these wordsthe soul of Ludovico was filled with remorse and sorrow. "And theother?" asked he anxiously.

"The other had expired before I arrived."

In the mean time the avenues and environs of the convent swarmed withpeople; the officers of justice arrived, dispersed the crowd, and placedthemselves in ambush at a short distance from the gates, so that no onecould pass through them unobserved. A brother of the deceased and someof his family appeared in full armour with a large attendance ofbravoes, and surrounded the place, watching with a threatening aspectthe bystanders, who did not dare say, he is safe, but they had itwritten on their faces.

Scarcely had Ludovico recalled his scattered thoughts, when he asked fora father confessor, prayed him to seek out the widow of Christopher, toask forgiveness in his name for having been (however involuntarily) thecause of her affliction, and to assure her that he would take the careof her family on himself. Reflecting further on his own situation, hisdetermination was made to become a friar. It seemed as if God himselfhad willed it, by placing him in a convent at such a conjuncture. Heimmediately sent for the superior of the monastery, and expressed to himhis intention. He replied to him, that he should be careful not to forma resolution precipitately, but that, if he persisted, he would beaccepted. Ludovico then sent for a notary, and made a donation of allhis estate to the widow and family of Christopher.

The resolution of Ludovico happened opportunely for his hosts, who feltthemselves embarrassed concerning him. To send him from the monastery,and thus expose him to justice and the vengeance of his enemies, was notto be thought of a moment; it would be the same as a renunciation of

their privileges, a discrediting of the convent amongst the people; andthey would draw upon themselves the animadversion of all the capuchinsof the universe for this relinquishment of the rights of the order, thisdefiance of the ecclesiastical authorities, who then consideredthemselves the guardians of these rights. On the other hand, the familyof the deceased, rich, and powerful in adherents, were determined onvengeance, and disposed to consider as enemies whoever should placeobstacles to its accomplishment. History declares, not that they grievedmuch for the dead, or that a single tear was shed for him amongst hiswhole race, but that they were urged on by scenting the blood of hisopponent. But Ludovico, by assuming the habit of a capuchin, removed alldifficulties: to a certain degree he made atonement; imposed on himselfpenitence; confessed his fault; withdrew from the contest; he was, inshort, an enemy who laid down his arms. The relations of the deceasedcould, if they pleased, believe and boast that he had become a friarthrough despair and dread of their revenge. And at all events, to reducea man to dispossess himself of his wealth, to shave his head, to walkbare-footed, to sleep on straw, and to live on alms, might appear apunishment competent to the offence.

The superior presented himself before the brother of the deceased withan air of humility; after a thousand protestations of respect for hisillustrious house, and of desire to comply with its wishes as far as waspracticable, he spoke of the repentance and resolution of Ludovico,politely hoping that the family would grant their accordance; and theninsinuating, mildly and dexterously, that, agreeable or not agreeable,the thing would take place. After some little vapouring, he agreed to iton one condition; that the murderer of his brother should departimmediately from the city. To this the capuchin assented, as if inobedience to the wishes of the family, although it had been already sodetermined. The affair was thus concluded to the satisfaction of theillustrious house, of the capuchin brotherhood, of the popular feeling,and, above all, of our generous penitent himself. Thus, at thirty yearsof age, Ludovico bade farewell to the world; and having, according tocustom, to change his name, he took one which would continually recallto him his crime,--thus he became _Friar Christopher_!

Hardly was the ceremony of assuming the habit completed, when thesuperior informed him he must depart on the morrow to perform hisnoviciate at ----, sixty miles' distance. The noviciate bowedsubmissively. "Permit me, father," said he, "before I leave the scene ofmy crime, to do all that rests with me now to repair the evil; permit meto go to the house of the brother of him whom I have murdered, toacknowledge my fault, and ask forgiveness; perhaps God will take awayhis but too just resentment."

It appeared to the superior that such an act, besides being praiseworthyin itself, would serve still more to reconcile the family to themonastery. He therefore bore the request himself to the brother of themurdered man; a proposal so unexpected was received with a mixture ofscorn and complacency. "Let him come to-morrow," said he, and appointedthe hour. The superior returned to Father Christopher with the desiredpermission.

The gentleman reflected that the more solemn and public the apology was,the more it would enhance his credit with the family and the world; hemade known in haste to the members of the family, that on the following

day they should assemble at his house to receive a common satisfaction.At mid-day the palace swarmed with nobility of either sex; there was ablending of veils, feathers, and jewels; a heavy motion of starched andcrisped bands; a confused entangling of embroidered trains. Theantechambers, the courts, and the street, were crowded with servants,pages, and bravoes.

Father Christopher experienced a momentary agitation at beholding allthis preparation, but recovering himself, said, "It is well; the deedwas committed in public, the reparation should be public." Then, withhis eyes bent to the earth, and the father, his companion, at his elbow,he crossed the court, amidst a crowd who eyed him with unceremoniouscuriosity; he entered, ascended the stairs, and passing through anothercrowd of lords, who made way for him at his approach, he advancedtowards the master of the mansion, who stood in the middle of the roomwaiting to receive him, with downcast looks, grasping with one hand thehilt of his sword, and with the other pressing the cape of his Spanishcloak on his breast. The countenance and deportment of FatherChristopher made an immediate impression on the company; so that allwere convinced that he had not submitted to this humiliation from fearof man. He threw himself on his knees before him whom he had mostinjured, crossed his hands on his breast, and bending his head,exclaimed, "I am the murderer of your brother! God knows, that torestore him to life I would sacrifice my own; but as this cannot be, Isupplicate you to accept my useless and late apology, for the love ofGod!"

All eyes were fixed in breathless and mute attention on the novice, andon the person to whom he addressed himself; there was heard through thecrowd a murmur of pity and respect; the angry scorn of the noblemanrelaxed at this appeal, and bending towards the kneeling supplicant,"Rise," said he, with a troubled voice. "The offence--the deedtruly--but the habit you wear--not only this--but on your ownaccount--rise, father!--my brother--I cannot deny it--was a cavalier--ofa hasty temper. Do not speak of it again. But, father, you must notremain in this posture." And he took him by the arm to raise him. FatherChristopher, standing with his eyes still bent to the ground, continued,"I may, then, hope that you have granted me your pardon. And if I obtainit from you, from whom may I not expect it? Oh! if I could hear youutter the word!"

"Pardon!" said the nobleman; "I pardon you with all my heart, andall----" turning to the company----"All! all!" resounded at once throughthe room.

The countenance of the father expanded with joy, under which, however,was still visible an humble and profound compunction for the evil, whichthe remission of men could not repair. The nobleman, entirelyvanquished, threw his arms around his neck, and the kiss of peace wasgiven and received.

Loud exclamations of applause burst from the company; and all crowdedeagerly around the father. In the meanwhile the servants entered,bearing refreshments; the master of the mansion, again addressing FatherChristopher, said, "Father, afford me a proof of your friendship byaccepting some of these trifles."

"Such things are no longer for me," replied the father; "but if you willallow me a loaf of bread, as a memorial of your charity and yourforgiveness, I shall be thankful." The bread was brought, and with anair of humble gratitude he put it in his basket. He then took leave ofthe company; disentangled himself with difficulty from the crowd in theantechambers, who would have kissed the hem of his garment, and pursuedhis way to the gate of the city, whence he commenced his pedestrianjourney towards the place of his noviciate.

It is not our design to write the history of his cloistral life; we willonly say, he executed faithfully the offices ordinarily assigned to him,of preaching, and of comforting the dying; but beyond these, "theoppressor's wrongs, the proud man's contumely," aroused in him a spiritof resistance which humiliation and remorse had not been able entirelyto extinguish. His countenance was habitually mild and humble, butoccasionally there passed over it a shade of former impetuosity, whichwas with difficulty restrained by the high and holy motives which nowpredominated in his soul. His tone of voice was gentle as hiscountenance; but in the cause of justice and truth, his language assumeda character of solemnity and emphasis singularly impressive. One whoknew him well, and admired his virtues, could often perceive, by thesmothered utterance or the change of a single word, the inward conflictbetween the natural impetus and the resolved will, which latter neverfailed to gain the mastery.

If one unknown to him in the situation of Lucy had implored hisassistance, he would have granted it immediately; with how much moresolicitude, then, did he direct his steps to the cottage, knowing andadmiring her innocence, trembling for her danger, and experiencing alively indignation at the persecution of which she had become theobject. Besides, he had advised her to remain quiet, and not make knownthe conduct of her persecutor, and he felt or feared that his advicemight have been productive of bad consequences. His anxiety for herwelfare, and his inadequate means to secure it, called up many painfulfeelings, which the good often experience.

But while we have been relating his history, he arrived at the dwelling;Agnes and her daughter advanced eagerly towards him, exclaiming in onebreath, "Oh! Father Christopher, you are welcome."

CHAPTER V.

Father Christopher perceived immediately, from the countenances of Lucyand her mother, that some evil had occurred. "Is all well with you?"said he. Lucy replied by a flood of tears. "Quiet yourself, poor child,"continued he; "and do you," turning to Agnes, "tell me what is thematter." Whilst the good dame proceeded with the melancholy relation, heexperienced a variety of painful emotions. The story being done, heburied his face in his hands, and exclaimed, "Oh, blessed God! howlong?"--He then turned to Lucy; "Poor child! God has, indeed, visitedyou," said he.

"You will not abandon us, father?" said Lucy, sobbing.

"Abandon you!" replied he. "How should I dare ask the protectionof Almighty God for myself, if I abandoned _you_! You, sodefenceless!--you, whom he has confided to me! Take courage! He willassist you--His eye beholds you--He can even make use of a feebleinstrument like myself to confound a ----. Let us think what can bedone."

Thus saying, he grasped his beard and chin with his hand, as if toconcentrate more completely the powers of his mind. But the more clearlyhe perceived the pressing nature of the case, the more uncertain anddangerous appeared every mode of meeting it. To endeavour to make DonAbbondio sensible of a failure in duty? This appeared hopeless; fear wasmore powerful with him than either shame or duty. To inform the cardinalarchbishop, and invoke his authority? That would require time; and, inthe meanwhile, what was to be done? To resist Don Roderick? How?Impossible! The affair being one of a private nature, he would not besustained by the brethren of his order: he would, perhaps, be raising astorm against himself; and, what was worse, by a useless attempt renderthe condition of Lucy more hopeless and deplorable. After manyreflections he came to the conclusion to go to Don Roderick himself, andto endeavour by prayers and representations of the punishments of thewicked in another state, to win him from his infamous purpose. At leasthe might at the interview discover something of his intentions, anddetermine his measures accordingly. At this moment Renzo, who, as thereader will readily imagine, could not long be absent at so interestinga crisis, appeared at the door of the room; the father raised his headand bowed to him affectionately, and with a look of intense pity.

"Have they told you, father?" enquired he, with a troubled voice.

"Yes, my son; and on that account I am here."

"What do you say of the villain?"

"What do I say of _him_? I say to _you_, dear Renzo, that you mustconfide in God, and He will not abandon you."

"Blessed words!" exclaimed the youth: "you are not one of those whowrong the poor. But the curate and this doctor----"

"Do not torment yourself uselessly: I am but a poor friar; but I repeatto you that which I have already said to Lucy and her mother--poor as Iam, I will never abandon you."

"Oh! you are not like the friends of the world--rascals--when I was inprosperity, abundant in protestations; ready to shed their blood for me,to sustain me against the devil! Had I an enemy, they would soon put itout of his power to molest me! And now, to see them withdrawthemselves!" He was interrupted in his vituperations by the dark shadewhich passed over the countenance of his auditor; he perceived theblunder he had made, and attempting to remedy it, became perplexed andconfused. "I would say--I did not at all intend--that is, I meant tosay----"

"What did you mean to say? You have already begun to mar my undertaking.It is well that thou art undeceived in time. What! thou didst seek

friends! and what friends! they could not have aided thee, had they beenwilling. And thou didst not apply to the only friend who can and willprotect thee;--dost thou not know that God is the friend of all whotrust in Him? dost thou not know that to spread the talons does littlegood to the weak? and even if----" at these words he grasped forciblyRenzo's arm; his countenance, without losing his wonted authority,displayed an affecting remorse; his eyes were fixed on the ground; andhis voice became slow and sepulchral: "and even if that little should begained, how terribly awful! Renzo, will you confide in me?--that Ishould say in me! a worm of the dust! will you not confide in God?"

"Oh! yes!" replied Renzo; "He only is the Lord."

"Promise me, then, that you will not meet or provoke any one; that youwill suffer yourself to be guided by me."

"I promise," said Renzo.

Lucy drew a long breath, as if relieved from a weight, and Agnes wasloud in applauses.

"Listen, my children," resumed Father Christopher: "I will go myselfto-day to speak to this man: if God touches his heart through my words,well; if not, _He_ will provide some other remedy. In the mean time keepyourselves quiet and retired; this evening, or to-morrow at the latest,you shall see me again." Having said this, he departed amidst thanks andblessings.

He arrived at the convent in time to perform his daily duty in thechoir, dined, and then pursued his way towards the den of the wild beasthe had undertaken to tame.

The palace of Don Roderick stood by itself, on the summit of one of thepromontories that skirt the coast; it was three or four miles distantfrom the village; at the foot of the promontory nearest the lake, therewas a cluster of decayed cottages inhabited by peasantry belonging toDon Roderick. This was the little capital of his little kingdom. As youcast a glance within their walls, you beheld suspended to them variouskinds of arms, with spades, mattocks, and pouches of powder, blendedpromiscuously. The persons within appeared robust and strong, with adaring and insulting expression of countenance, and wearing a long lockof hair on the head, which was covered with net-work. The aged, that hadlost their teeth, seemed ready to show their gums at the slightest call:masculine women, with sinewy arms, seemed disposed to use them with asmuch indifference as their tongues; the very children exhibited the samedaring recklessness as the parent stock. Friar Christopher passedthrough the hamlet, ascending a winding path which conducted him to thelittle esplanade in the front of the castle. The door was shut, whichwas a sign that the chief was dining and did not wish to be disturbed.The few windows that looked on the road were small and decayed by time;they were, however, secured by large iron bars; and the lowest of themwere more than ten feet from the ground. A profound silence reignedwithin, and a traveller might have believed the mansion deserted, butfor the appearance of four animals, two alive and two dead, in front ofthe castle. Two large vultures, with their wings expanded, were nailedeach at the posts of the gate; and two bravoes, extended at full lengthon the benches on either side, were keeping guard until their master

should have finished his repast. The father stopped, as if willing alsoto wait. "Father, father, come on," said one, "we do not make thecapuchins wait here; we are the friends of the convent; I have beenwithin its walls when the air on the outside of them was not verywholesome for me; it was well the fathers did not refuse me admittance."So saying, he gave two strokes with the knocker: at the sound, the howlsof mastiffs were heard from within; and in a few moments there appearedan aged domestic. On seeing the father, he bowed reverently, quieted theanimals with his voice, introduced the guest into a narrow court, andclosed the gate. Then escorting him into a saloon, and regarding himwith an astonished and respectful look, said, "Is not this--the FatherChristopher of Pescarenico?"

"The same."

"And here!"

"As you see, good man."

"It must be to do good," continued he, murmuring between his teeth;"good can be done every where." He then guided him through two or threedark halls, and led the way to the banqueting room: here was heard aconfused noise of plates, and knives and forks, and discordant voices.Whilst Father Christopher was urging the domestic to suffer him toremain in some other apartment until the dinner should be finished, thedoor opened. A certain Count Attilio, a cousin of the noble host, (ofwhom we have already spoken, without giving his name,) was seatedopposite: when he saw the bald head and habit of the father, andperceived his motion to withdraw, "Ho! father," cried he, "you sha'n'tescape us; reverend father, forward, forward!" Don Roderick secondedsomewhat unwillingly this boisterous command, as he felt somepresentiment of the object of his visit. "Come, father, come in," saidhe. Seeing there was no retreating, Father Christopher advanced,saluting the nobleman and his guests.

An honest man is generally fearless and undaunted in presence of thewicked; nevertheless, the father, with the testimony of a goodconscience and a firm conviction of the justice of his cause, with amixture of horror and compassion for Don Roderick, felt a degree ofembarrassment in approaching him. He was seated at table, surrounded byguests; on his right was Count Attilio, his colleague in libertinism,who had come from Milan to visit him. To the left was seated, withrespectful submissiveness, tempered, however, with conscious security,the _podestà_ of the place,--he whose duty it was, according to theproclamation, to cause justice to be done to Renzo Tramaglino, and toinflict the allotted penalty on Don Roderick. Nearly opposite to the_podestà_ sat our learned Doctor _Azzecca Garbugli_, with his black capand his red nose; and over against him two obscure guests, of whom ourstory says nothing beyond a general mention of their toad-eatingqualities.

"Give a seat to the father," said Don Roderick. A servant presented achair, and the good father apologised for having come at so inopportunean hour. "I would speak with you alone on an affair of importance,"added he, in a low tone, to Don Roderick.

"Very well, father, it shall be so," replied he; "but in the meanwhile

bring the father something to drink."

Father Christopher would have refused, but Don Roderick, raising hisvoice above the tumult of the table, cried, "No, by Bacchus, you shallnot do me this wrong; a capuchin shall never leave this house withouthaving tasted my wine, nor an insolent creditor without having tastedthe wood of my forests." These words produced a universal laugh, andinterrupted for a moment the question which was hotly agitated betweenthe guests. A servant brought the wine, of which Father Christopherpartook, feeling the necessity of propitiating the host.

"The authority of Tasso is against you, respected Signor _Podestà_,"resumed aloud the Count Attilio: "this great man was well acquaintedwith the laws of knighthood, and he makes the messenger of Argantes,before carrying the defiance of the Christian knights, ask permissionfrom the pious Bouillon."

"But that," replied vociferously the _podestà_, "that is poeticallicence merely: an ambassador is in his nature inviolable, by the law ofnations, _jure gentium_; and moreover, the ambassador, not having spokenin his own name, but merely presented the challenge in writing----"

"But when will you comprehend that this ambassador was a daring fool,who did not know the first----"

"With the good leave of our guests," interrupted Don Roderick, who didnot wish the argument to proceed farther, "we will refer it to theFather Christopher, and submit to his decision."

"Agreed," said Count Attilio, amused at submitting a question ofknighthood to a capuchin; whilst the _podestà_ muttered between histeeth, "Folly!"

"But, from what I have comprehended," said the father, "it is a subjectof which I have no knowledge."

"As usual, modest excuses from the father," said Don Roderick; "but wewill not accept them. Come, come, we know well that you came not intothe world with a cowl on your head; you know something of its ways.Well, how stands the argument?"

"The facts are these," said the Count Attilio----

"Let me tell, who am neutral, cousin," resumed Don Roderick. "This isthe story: a Spanish knight sent a challenge to a Milanese knight; thebearer, not finding him at home, presented it to his brother, who,having read it, struck the bearer many blows. The question is----"

"It was well done; he was perfectly right," cried Count Attilio.

"There was no right about it," exclaimed the _podestà_. "To beat anambassador--a man whose person is sacred! Father, do _you_ think thiswas an action becoming a knight?"

"Yes, sir; of a knight," cried the count, "I think I know what belongsto a knight. Oh! if it had been an affair of fists, that would havebeen quite another thing, but a cudgel soils no one's hands."

"I am not speaking of this, Sir Count; I am speaking of the _laws_ ofknighthood. But tell me, I pray you, if the messengers that the ancientRomans sent to bear defiance to other nations, asked permission todeliver the message; find, if you can, a writer who relates that suchmessenger was ever cudgelled."

"What have the ancient Romans to do with us? a people well enough insome things, but in others, far, far behind. But according to the lawsof modern knighthood, I maintain that a messenger, who dared place inthe hands of a knight a challenge without having previously askedpermission, is a rash fool who deserves to be cudgelled."

"But answer me this question----"

"No, no, no."

"But hear me. To strike an unarmed person is an act of treachery._Atqui_ the messenger _de quo_ was without arms. _Ergo_----"

"Gently, gently, Signor _Podestà_."

"How? gently."

"Gently, I tell you; I concede that under other circumstances this mighthave been called an act of treachery, but to strike a low fellow! Itwould have been a fine thing truly, to say to him, as you would to agentleman, Be on your guard! And you, Sir Doctor, instead of sittingthere grinning your approbation of my opinion, why do you not aid me toconvince this gentleman?"

"I," replied the doctor in confusion; "I enjoy this learned dispute, andam thankful for the opportunity of listening to a war of wit soagreeable. And moreover, I am not competent to give an opinion; his mostillustrious lordship has appointed a judge--the father."

"True," said Don Roderick; "but how can the judge speak when thedisputants will not keep silence?"

"I am dumb," said the Count Attilio. The _podestà_ made a sign that hewould be quiet.

"Well! father! at last!" said Don Roderick, with comic gravity.

"I have already said, that I do not comprehend----"

"No excuses! we must have your opinion."

"If it must be so," replied the father, "I should humbly think there wasno necessity for challenges, nor bearers, nor blows."

The guests looked in wonder at each other.

"Oh! how ridiculous!" said the Count Attilio. "Pardon me, father; butthis is exceedingly ridiculous. It is plain you know nothing of theworld."

"He?" said Don Roderick; "he knows as much of it as you do, cousin. Isit not so, father?"

Father Christopher made no reply; but to himself he said, "submitthyself to every insult for the sake of those for whom thou art here."

"It may be so," said the count; "but the father----how is the fathercalled?"

"Father Christopher," replied more than one.

"But, Father Christopher, your reverend worship, with your maxims youwould turn the world upside down--without challenges! without blows!Farewell, the point of honour! Impunity to ruffians! Happily, the thingis impossible."

"Stop, doctor," cried Don Roderick, wishing to divert the dispute fromthe original antagonists. "You are a good man for an argument; what haveyou to say to the father?"

"Indeed," replied the doctor, brandishing his fork in the air--"indeed Icannot understand how the Father Christopher should not remember thathis judgment, though of just weight in the pulpit, is worth nothing--Ispeak with great submission--on a question of knighthood. But perhaps hehas been merely jesting, to relieve himself from embarrassment."

The father not replying to this, Don Roderick made an effort to changethe subject.

"Apropos," said he, "I understand there is a report at Milan of anaccommodation."

There was at this time a contest regarding the succession to the dukedomof Mantua, of which, at the death of Vincenzo Gonzaga, who died withoutmale issue, the Duke de Nevers, his nearest relation, had obtainedpossession. Louis XIII., or rather the Cardinal de Richelieu, wished tosustain him there; Philip IV., or rather the Count d'Olivares, commonlycalled the Count Duke, opposed him. The dukedom was then a fief of theempire, and the two parties employed intrigue and importunity at thecourt of the Emperor Ferdinand II. The object of one was to obtain theinvestiture of the new duke; of the other, the denial of his claim, andalso assistance to oblige him to relinquish it.

"I rather think," said the Count Attilio, "that the thing will bearranged satisfactorily. I have reasons----"

"Do not believe it, count, do not believe it," added the _podestà_; "Ihave an opportunity of knowing, because the Spanish keeper of thecastle, who is my friend, and who is the son of a dependant of the CountDuke, is informed of every thing."

"I tell you I have discoursed on the subject daily at Milan; and I knowfrom good authority that the pope, exceedingly interested as he is forpeace, has made propositions----"

"That may be, the thing is in order; his Holiness does his duty; a popeshould always endeavour to make peace between Christian princes; but the

Count Duke has his own policy, and----"

"And, and, and, do you know, Signor _Podestà_, how much thought theemperor now gives to it? Do you believe there is no place but Mantua inthe world! There are many things to provide for, signor, mind. Do youknow, for instance, how far the emperor can trust this Prince ofValdistano, or di Vallistai, as they call him; and if----"

"His name, in the German language," interrupted the magistrate, "isWallenstein, as I have heard it uttered many times by the Spanish keeperof the castle. But be of good courage----"

"Do you dare teach me," replied the count. Here Don Roderick whisperedto him to cease contradiction, as there would be no end to it. Heobeyed; and the _podestà_, like a vessel unimpeded by shoals, continuedwith full sails the course of his eloquence. "Wallenstein gives me butlittle anxiety; because the Count Duke has his eye every where; and ifWallenstein carries matters with a high hand, he will soon set himright. He has his eye every where, I say, and unlimited power; and if itis his policy that the Signor Duke of Nevers should not take root inMantua, he will never flourish there, be assured. It makes me laugh tosee the Signor Cardinal de Richelieu contend with an Olivares. The CountDuke, gentlemen," pursued he, with the wind still in his favour, andmuch wondering at not meeting with opposition, "the Count Duke is an oldfox--speaking with due respect--who would make any one lose his track:when he appears to go to the right, it would be safest to follow him tothe left: no one can boast of knowing his designs; they who are toexecute them, they who write the despatches, know nothing of them. Ispeak from authority, for the keeper of the castle deigns to confide inme. The Count Duke knows well enough how the pot boils in all the courtsin Europe; and these politicians have hardly laid a plan, but he beginsto frustrate it. That poor man, the Cardinal Richelieu, attempts anddissembles, toils and strives; and what does it all produce? When he hasdug the mine, he finds a countermine already prepared by the CountDuke----"

None can tell when the magistrate would have cast anchor, if DonRoderick had not interrupted him. "Signor _Podestà_," said he, "and you,gentlemen, a bumper to the Count Duke, and you shall then judge if thewine is worthy of the personage." The _podestà_ bowed low in gratitudefor an honour he considered as paid to himself in part for his eloquentharangue.

"May Don Gaspero Guzman, Count de Olivares, Duke of St. Lucar, live athousand years!" said he, raising his glass.

"May he live a thousand years!" exclaimed all the company.

"Help the father," said Don Roderick.

"Excuse me," replied he, "I could not----"

"How!" said Don Roderick; "will you not drink to the Count Duke? Wouldyou have us believe that you hold to the Navarre party?"

This was the contemptuous term applied to the French interest at thetime of Henry IV.

There was no reply to be made to this, and the father was obliged totaste the wine. All the guests were loud in its praise, except thedoctor, who had kept silence. "Eh! doctor," asked Don Roderick, "whatthink _you_ of it?"

"I think," replied the doctor, withdrawing his ruddy and shining nosefrom the glass, "that this is the Olivares of wines: there is not aliquor resembling it in all the twenty-two kingdoms of the king ourmaster, whom God protect! I maintain that the dinners of the mostillustrious Signor Don Roderick exceed the suppers of Heliogabalus, andthat scarcity is banished for ever from this palace, where reigns aperpetual and splendid abundance."

"Well said! bravo! bravo!" exclaimed with one voice the guests; but theword _scarcity_, which the doctor had accidentally uttered, suggested anew and painful subject. All spoke at once:--"There is no famine," saidone, "it is the speculators who----"

"And the bakers, who conceal the grain. Hang them!"

"That is right; hang them, without mercy."

"Upon fair trial," cried the magistrate.

"What trial?" cried Attilio, more loudly; "summary justice, I say. Takea few of them who are known to be the richest and most avaricious, andhang them."

"Yes, hang them! hang them! and there will be grain scattered inabundance."

Thus the party continued absorbing the wine, whose praises, mixed withsentences of economical jurisprudence, formed the burthen of theconversation; so that the loudest and most frequent words were, _Nectar,and hang 'em_.

Don Roderick had, from time to time, during this confusion, looked atthe father: perceiving him calmly, but firmly, awaiting his leisure forthe interview which had been promised him, he relinquished the hope ofwearying him by its postponement. To send away a capuchin, withoutgiving him an audience, was not according to his policy; and since itcould not be avoided, he resolved to meet it at once: he rose from thetable, excused himself to his guests, and saying proudly, "At yourservice, father," led the way to another room.

CHAPTER VI.

"In what can I serve you?" said Don Roderick, as soon as they enteredinto the room. Such were his words, but his manner said plainly,"Remember before whom thou standest, weigh well thy words, and beexpeditious."

There were no means more certain to impart courage to Father Christopherthan arrogance or pride. He had stood for a moment in someembarrassment, passing through his fingers the beads of the rosary thathung suspended from his girdle; but he soon "resumed new courage, andrevived," at the haughty air of Don Roderick. He had, however,sufficient command over himself to reply with caution and humility. "Icome to supplicate you to perform an act of justice: some wicked personshave, in the name of your lordship, frightened a poor curate, and haveendeavoured to prevent his fulfilling his duty towards an innocent andunoffending couple. You can by a word confound their machinations, andimpart consolation to the afflicted. You can--and having it in yourpower--conscience, honour----"

"Speak to me of conscience, when I ask your advice on the subject; andas to my honour, know that I only am the guardian of it, and thatwhoever dares to meddle with it is a rash man."

Friar Christopher, warned by these words that the intention of DonRoderick was to turn the conversation into a dispute, so as to win himfrom his original purpose, determined to bear whatever insult might beoffered him, and meekly replied, "It was certainly not my intention tosay any thing to displease you: correct me, reprove me; but deign tolisten to me. By the love of Heaven, by that God before whom we must allappear, I charge thee, do not obstinately refuse to do justice to theinnocent and oppressed! Think that God watches over them, that theirimprecations are heard above, and----"

"Stop," interrupted Don Roderick, rudely. "The respect I bear to yourhabit is great; but if any thing could make me forget it, it would be tosee it worn by one coming as a spy into my house."

These words spread an indignant glow over the face of the father; butswallowing them as a bitter medicine, he resumed: "You do not believethat I am such; you feel in your heart that I am here on no vile orcontemptible errand. Listen to me, Signor Don Roderick; and Heaven grantthat the day may never arrive, when you shall repent of not havinglistened to me! Listen to me, and perform this deed of justice andbenevolence. Men will esteem you! God will esteem you! you have much inyour power, but----"

"Do you know," again interrupted Don Roderick with warmth, but withsomething like remorse, "that when the whim takes me to hear a sermon, Ican go to church? But, perhaps," continued he, with a forced smile ofmockery, "you are putting regal dignity on me, and giving me a preacherin my own palace."

"And to God princes are responsible for the reception of his messages;to God you are responsible; he now sends into your palace a message byone of his ministers, the most unworthy----"

"In short, father," said Don Roderick, preparing to go, "I do notcomprehend you: I suppose you have some affair of your own on hand; makea confidant of whom you please; but use not the freedom of troubling agentleman any farther."

"Don Roderick, do not say _No_ to me; do not keep in anguish the heartof an innocent child! a word from you would be sufficient."

"Well," said Don Roderick, "since you think I have so much in my power,and since you are so much interested----"

"Yes!" said Father Christopher, anxiously regarding him.

"Well, advise her to come, and place herself under my protection; shewill want for nothing, and no one shall disturb her, as I am agentleman."

At such a proposal, the indignation of the friar, which had hithertobeen restrained with difficulty, loudly burst forth. All his prudenceand patience forsook him: "Your protection!" exclaimed he, steppingback, and stretching forth both his hands towards Don Roderick, while hesternly fixed his eyes upon him, "your protection! You have filled themeasure of your guilt by this wicked proposal, and I fear you nolonger."

"Dare you speak thus to me?"

"I dare; I fear you no longer; God has abandoned you, and you are nolonger an object of fear! Your protection! this innocent child is underthe protection of God; you have, by your infamous offer, increased myassurance of her safety. Lucy, I say; see with what boldness I pronounceher name before you; Lucy----"

"How! in this house----"

"I compassionate this house; the wrath of God is upon it! You have actedin open defiance of the great God of heaven and earth; you have set atnaught his counsel; you have oppressed the innocent; you have trampledon the rights of those whom you should have been the first to protectand defend. The wrath of God is upon you! A day will come!"

"Villain!" said Don Roderick, who at first was confounded between rageand astonishment; but when he heard the father thundering forth thisprediction, a mysterious and unaccountable dread took possession of hissoul. Hastily seizing his outstretched arm, and raising his voice inorder to drown the maledictions of the monk, he cried aloud, "Departfrom me, rash villain, cowled spy!"

These words instantly cooled the glowing enthusiasm of FatherChristopher. The ideas of insult and injury in his mind had long beenhabitually associated with those of suffering and silence. His usualhabits resumed their sway, and he became calm; he awaited what farthermight be said, as, after the strength of the whirlwind has passed, anaged tree naturally recomposes its branches, and receives the hail asHeaven sends it.

"Villain! scoundrel! talk to your equals," said Don Roderick; "but thankthe habit you bear for saving you from the chastisement which is yourdue. Begone this instant, and with unscathed limbs, or we shall see."So saying, he pointed imperiously to an opposite door. The friar bowedhis head, and departed, leaving Don Roderick to measure with hasty andagitated steps the field of battle.

When he had closed the door behind him, the father perceived a man

stealing softly away through another, and he recognised him as the ageddomestic who had been his guide to the presence of Don Roderick. Beforethe birth of that nobleman, he had been in the service of his father,who was a man of a very different character. At his death, the newmaster expelled all the domestics, with the exception of this one, whomhe retained on account of two valuable qualifications; a high conceptionof the dignity of the house, and a minute knowledge of the ceremonialrequired to support that dignity. The poor old man had never dared evento hint disapprobation of the daily proceedings at the castle before thesignor, but he would sometimes venture to allow an exclamation of griefand disapproval to escape him before his fellow servants, who wereinfinitely diverted by his simple honesty, and his warm love of the goodold times. His censures did not reach his master's ears unaccompanied bya relation of the raillery bestowed upon them, so that he became anobject of general ridicule. On the days of formal entertainment,therefore, the old man was a person of great importance.

Father Christopher bowed to him as he passed by him, and pursued hisway; but the old man approached him with a mysterious air, and made asign that he should follow him into a dark passage, where, speaking inan under tone, he said, "Father! I have heard all, and I want to speakto you."

"Speak at once, then, good man."

"Here! oh no! Woe be to us if the master suspect it! But I shall be ableto discover much, and I will endeavour to come to-morrow to theconvent."

"Is there any base plot?"

"There is something hatching, certainly; I have long suspected it; butnow I shall be on the look out, and I will come at the truth. These arestrange doings--I live in a house where----But I wish to save my soul."

"God bless you!" said the friar, placing his hands on his head, as hebent reverently towards him; "God reward you! Do not forget then to cometo-morrow."

"I will not," replied the domestic; "but go, now, for the love ofHeaven, and do not betray me."

So saying, he looked cautiously on all sides, and led the way throughthe passage into a large hall, which fronted the court-yard, andpointing to the door, silently bade him "Farewell."

When once in the street, and freed from this den of depravity, thefather breathed more freely; he hastened down the hill, pale incountenance, and agitated and distressed by the scene he had witnessed,and in which he had taken so leading a part. But the unlooked-forproffer of the servant came like a cordial. It seemed as if Heaven hadsent a visible sign of its protection--a clue to guide him in hisintricate undertaking--and in the very house where it was least likelyto be found. Occupied with these thoughts, he raised his eyes towardsthe west, and beheld the sun declining behind the mountain, and feltthat he had but a few minutes in which to reach the monastery, withoutviolating the absolute law of the capuchins, that none of the

brotherhood should remain beyond the walls after sunset.

Meanwhile, in the cottage of Lucy there had been plans agitated of whichit is necessary to inform the reader. After the departure of the father,they had continued some time in silence; Lucy, with a heavy heart,prepared the dinner; Renzo, wavering and anxious, knew not how todepart; Agnes was apparently absorbed with her reel, but she was reallymaturing a thought, which she in a few moments thus declared:--

"Listen, my children. If you will have the necessary courage anddexterity; if you will confide in your mother; I pledge myself to freeyou from perplexity, sooner than Father Christopher could do, althoughhe is the best man in the world." Lucy looked at her mother with anexpression of astonishment rather than confidence, in a promise somagnificent. "Courage! dexterity!" cried Renzo, "say, say, what can Ido?"

"Is it not true," said Agnes, "that if you were married, your chiefdifficulty would be removed, and that for the rest we would easily finda remedy!"

"Undoubtedly," said Renzo, "if we were married--The world is before us;and at a short distance from this, in Bergamo, a silk weaver is receivedwith open arms. You know how often my cousin Bartolo has solicited me togo there, and enter into business with him; how many times he has toldme that I should make a fortune, as he has done; and if I never listenedto his request, it was--because my heart was here. Once married, wewould all go together, and live happily far from the clutches of thisvillain, far from the temptation to do a rash deed. Is it not so, Lucy?"

"Yes," said Lucy, "but how----"

"As I said," resumed Agnes, "courage and dexterity, and the thing iseasy."

"Easy!" exclaimed they, in wonder.

"Easy," replied Agnes, "if you are prudent. Hear me patiently, and Iwill endeavour to make you comprehend my project. I have heard it saidby persons who knew, and moreover I have seen one instance of it myself,that a curate's _consent_ is not necessary to render a marriage ceremonylawful, provided you have his presence."

"How so?" asked Renzo.

"You shall hear. There must be two witnesses, nimble and cunning. You goto the curate; the point is to catch him unexpectedly, that he may haveno time to escape. You say, 'Signor Curate, this is my wife;' Lucy says,'Signor Curate, this is my husband;' you must speak so distinctly thatthe curate and the witnesses hear you, and the marriage is as inviolableas if the pope himself had celebrated it. When the words are onceuttered, the curate may fret, and fume, and scold; it will be of no use,you are man and wife."

"Is it possible?" exclaimed Lucy.

"Do you think," said Agnes, "that the thirty years I was in the world

before you, I learned nothing? The thing is as I tell you."

The fact was truly such as Agnes represented it; marriages contractedin this manner were at that time held valid. Such an expedient was,however, not recurred to, but in cases of great necessity, and thepriests made use of every precaution to avoid this compulsiveco-operation.

"If it be true, Lucy!" said Renzo, regarding her attentively, with asupplicating expression.

"_If_ it be true!" exclaimed Agnes. "Do you think I would say that whichis _not_ true? Well, well, get out of the difficulty as you can, I washmy hands from it."

"Ah, no! do not abandon us!" said Renzo; "I mean not to suggest a doubtof it. I place myself in your hands; I look to you as to a mother."

The momentary anger of Agnes vanished.

"But why, mamma," said Lucy, in her usual modest tone, "why did notFather Christopher think of this?"

"Think you that it did not come into his mind?" replied Agnes; "but hewould not speak of it."

"Why?" exclaimed they, both at once.

"Why?--because, if you must know it, the friars do not approve of it."

"If it is not right," said Lucy, "we must not do it."

"What!" said Agnes, "do you think I would advise you to do that which isnot right? If, against the advice of your parents, you were going tomarry a rogue--but, on the contrary, I am rejoiced at your choice, andhe who _causes_ the disturbance is the only villain; and the curate----"

"It is as clear as the sun," said Renzo.

"It is not necessary to speak of it to Father Christopher," continuedAgnes. "Once over, what do you think he will say to you? 'Ah! daughter,it was a great error; but it is done.' The friars must talk thus; but,believe me, in his heart he will be well content."

Lucy made no reply to an argument which did not appear to her verypowerful; but Renzo, quite encouraged, said, "If it be thus, the thingis done."

"Softly," said Agnes; "there is need of caution. We must procure thewitnesses; and find means to present ourselves to the curateunexpectedly. He has been two days concealed in his house; we must makehim remain there. If he suspects your intention, he will be as cunningas a cat, and flee as Satan from holy water."

Lucy here gained courage to offer her doubts of the propriety of such acourse. "Until now we have lived with candour and sincerity," said she;"let us continue to do so; let us have faith in God, and God will aid

us. Father Christopher said so: let us listen to his advice."

"Be guided by those who know better than you do," said Agnes gravely."What need of advice? God tells us, 'Help thyself, and I will helpthee.' We will tell the father all about it, when it is over."

"Lucy," said Renzo, "will you fail me now? Have we not done all that wecould do, like good Christians? Had not the curate himself fixed the dayand the hour? And whose is the blame if we are now obliged to use alittle management? No, you will not fail me. I go at once to seek thewitnesses, and will return to tell you my success." So saying, hehastily departed.

Disappointment sharpens the wit; and Renzo, who, in the straightforwardpath he had hitherto travelled, had not been required to subtilise much,now conceived a plan which would have done honour to a lawyer. He wentdirectly to the house of one Anthony, and found him in his kitchen,employed in stirring a _polenta_ of wheat, which was on the fire, whilsthis mother, brother, and his wife, with three or four small children,were seated at the table, eagerly intent on the earthen pan, andawaiting the moment when it should be ready for their attack. But, onthis occasion, the pleasure was wanting which the sight of dinnerusually produces in the aspect of the labourer who has earned it by hisindustry. The size of the _polenta_ was proportioned to the scantinessof the times, and not to the number and appetite of the assailants: andin casting a dissatisfied look on the common meal, each seemed to beconsidering the extent of appetite likely to survive it. Whilst Renzowas exchanging salutations with the family, Tony poured out the puddingon the pewter trencher prepared for its reception, and it appeared likea little moon within a large circumference of vapour. Nevertheless, thewife of Tony said courteously to Renzo, "Will you be helped tosomething?" This was a compliment that the peasants of Lombardy, howeverpoor, paid to those who were, from any accident, present at their meals.

"I thank you," replied Renzo; "I only came to say a few words to Tony;and, Tony, not to disturb your family, we can go and dine at the inn,and we shall then have an opportunity to converse." The proposal was asagreeable as it was unexpected. Tony readily assented to it, anddeparted with Renzo, leaving to his family his portion of the _polenta_.They arrived at the inn, seated themselves at their ease in a perfectsolitude, since the penury of the times had driven away the dailyfrequenters of the place. After having eaten, and emptied a bottle ofwine, Renzo, with an air of mystery, said to Tony, "If you will do me asmall service, I will do you a _great_ one."

"Speak, speak, command me," said Tony, filling his glass; "I will gothrough fire to serve you."

"You are twenty-five livres in debt to the curate, for the rent of hisfield, that you worked last year."

"Ah! Renzo, Renzo! why do you mention it to me now? You've spoiled yourkindness, and put to flight my good wishes."

"If I speak to you of your debt," said Renzo, "it is because I intend togive you the means of paying it."

"Do you really?"

"Really; would this content you?"

"Content me! that it would, indeed; if it were only to be freed fromthose infernal shakings of the head the curate makes me every time Imeet him. And then always, '_Tony, remember; Tony, when shall we seeeach other for this business?_' When he preaches, he fixes his eyes onme in such a manner, I am almost afraid he will speak to me from thepulpit. I have wished the twenty-five livres to the devil a thousandtimes: and I was obliged to pawn my wife's gold necklace, which might beturned into so much _polenta_. But----"

"But, if you will do me a small favour, the twenty-five livres areready."

"Agreed."

"But," said Renzo, "you must be silent and talk to no one about it."

"Need you tell me that?" said Tony; "you know me."

"The curate has some foolish reason for putting off my marriage, and Iwish to hasten it. I am told that the parties going before him with twowitnesses, and the one saying, _This is my wife_, and the other, _Thisis my husband_, that the marriage is lawful. Do you understand me?"

"You wish me to go as a witness?"

"Yes."

"And you will pay the twenty-five livres?"

"Yes."

"Done; I agree to it."

"But we must find another witness."

"I have found him already," said Tony. "My simpleton of a brother,Jervase, will do whatever I tell him; but you will pay him withsomething to drink?"

"And to eat," replied Renzo. "But will he be able?"

"I'll teach him; you know I was born with brains for both."

"To-morrow."

"Well."

"Towards evening."

"Very well."

"But be silent," said Renzo.

"Poh!" said Tony.

"But if thy wife should ask thee, as without doubt she will?"

"I am in debt to my wife for lies already; and for so much, that I don'tknow if we shall ever balance the account. I will tell her some idlestory or other to set her heart at rest." With this good resolution hedeparted, leaving Renzo to pursue his way back to the cottage. In themeanwhile Agnes had in vain solicited Lucy's consent to the measure; shecould not resolve to act without the approbation of Father Christopher.Renzo arrived, and triumphantly related his success. Lucy shook herhead, but the two enthusiasts minded her not. They were now determinedto pursue their plan, and by authority and entreaties induce her finallyto accede to it.

"It is well," said Agnes, "it is well, but you have not thought of everything."

"What have I not thought of?" replied Renzo.

"Perpetua! You have not thought of Perpetua. Do you believe that shewould suffer Tony and his brother to enter? How then is it probable shewould admit you and Lucy?"

"What shall we do?" said Renzo, pausing.

"I will tell you. I will go with you; I have a secret to tell her, whichwill engage her so that she will not see you. I will take her aside, andwill touch such a chord--you shall see."

"Bless you!" exclaimed Renzo, "I have always said you were our bestsupport."

"But all this will do no good," said Agnes, "if we cannot persuade Lucy,who obstinately persists that it is sinful."

Renzo made use of all his eloquence, but Lucy was not to be moved. "Iknow not what to say to your arguments," replied she. "I perceive thatto do this, we shall degrade ourselves so far as to lie and deceive. Ah!Renzo, let us not so abase ourselves! I would be your wife" (and a blushdiffused itself over her lovely countenance), "I would be your wife, butin the fear of God--at the altar. Let us trust in Him who is able toprovide. Do you not think He will find a way to help us, far better thanall this deception? And why make a mystery of it to Father Christopher?"

The contest still continued, when a trampling of sandals announcedFather Christopher. Agnes had barely time to whisper in the ear of Lucy,"Be careful to tell him nothing," when the friar entered.

CHAPTER VII.

"Peace be with you!" said the friar as he entered. "There is nothingmore to hope from man: so much the greater must be our confidence in

God; and I've already had a pledge of his protection." None of the threeentertained much hope from the visit of Father Christopher: for it wouldhave been not only an unusual, but an absolutely unheard-of fact, for anobleman to desist from his criminal designs at the mere prayer of hisdefenceless victim. Still, the sad certainty was a painful stroke.

The women bent down their heads; but in the mind of Renzo angerprevailed over disappointment. "I would know," cried he, gnashing histeeth, and raising his voice as he had never done before in the presenceof Father Christopher, "I would know what reasons this dog has given,that my wife should not _be_ my wife?"

"Poor Renzo!" said the father, with an accent of pity, and with a lookwhich greatly enforced moderation; "poor Renzo! if those who commitinjustice were always obliged to give a reason for it, things would notbe as they are!"

"He has said, then, the dog! that he will not, because he will not?"

"He has not even said _so_, poor Renzo! There would be something gained,if he would make an open confession of his iniquity."

"But he has said something; _what_ has this firebrand of hell said?"

"I could not repeat his words. He flew into a passion at me for mysuspicions, and at the same time confirmed me in them: he insulted me,and then called himself offended; threatened, and complained. Ask nofarther. He did not utter the name of Lucy, nor even pretend to knowyou: he affected to intend nothing. In short, I heard enough to feelthat he is inexorable. But confidence in God! Poor children! be patient,be submissive! And thou, Renzo! believe that I sympathise with all thatpasses in thy heart.--But _patience_! It is a poor word, a bitter wordto those who want faith; but, Renzo, will you not let God work? Will younot trust Him? Let Him work, Renzo; and, for your consolation, know thatI hold in my hand a clue, by which I hope to extricate you from yourdistress. I cannot say more now. To-morrow I shall not be here; I shallbe all day at the convent employed for you. Renzo, if thou canst, comethere to me; but, if prevented by any accident, send some trustymessenger, by whom I can make known to you the success of my endeavours.Night approaches; I must return to the convent. Farewell! Faith andcourage!" So saying, he departed, and hastened by the most abrupt butshortest road, to reach the convent in time, and escape the usualreprimand; or, what was worse, the imposition of some penance, whichmight disenable him, for the following day, from continuing his effortsin favour of his protégés.

"Did you hear him speak of a clue which he holds to aid us?" said Lucy;"it is best to trust in him; he is a man who does not make rashpromises."

"He ought to have spoken more clearly," said Agnes; "or at least havetaken me aside, and told me what it was."

"I'll put an end to the business; I'll put an end to it," said Renzo,pacing furiously up and down the room.

"Oh! Renzo!" exclaimed Lucy.

"What do you mean?" said Agnes.

"What do I mean? I mean to say that he may have a hundred thousanddevils in his soul, but he is flesh and blood notwithstanding."

"No, no, for the love of Heaven!" said Lucy, but tears choked her voice.

"It is not a theme for jesting," said Agnes.

"For jesting?" cried Renzo, stopping before her, with his countenanceinflamed by anger; "for jesting! you will see if I am in jest."

"Oh! Renzo!" said Lucy, sobbing, "I have never seen you thus before!"

"Hush, hush!" said Agnes, "speak not in this manner. Do you not fearthe law, which is always to be had against the poor? And, besides, howmany arms would be raised at a word!"

"I fear nothing," said Renzo; "the villain is well protected, dog thathe is! but no matter. Patience and resolution! and the time will come.Yes! justice shall be done! I will free the country! People will blessme! Yes, yes."

The horror which Lucy felt at this explicit declaration of his purposeinspired her with new resolution. With a tearful countenance, butdetermined voice, she said to Renzo, "It can no longer be of anyconsequence to you, that I should become yours; I promised myself to ayouth who had the fear of God in his heart; but a man who hadonce----were you safe from the law, were you secure from vengeance, wereyou the son of a king----"

"Well!" cried Renzo, in a voice of uncontrollable passion, "well! Ishall not have you, then; but neither shall he; of _that_ you may----"

"For pity's sake, do not talk thus; do not talk so fiercely!" said Lucyimploringly.

"You to implore me!" said he, somewhat appeased. "You! who will donothing for _me_! What proof do you give me of your affection? Have Inot supplicated in vain? Have I been able to obtain----"

"Yes, yes," replied Lucy, hastily, "I will go to the curate's to-morrow;now, if you wish it. Only be yourself again; I will go."

"Do you promise me?" said Renzo, softening immediately.

"I promise."

"Well, I am satisfied."

"God be praised!" said Agnes, much relieved.

"I have promised you," said Lucy, with an accent of timid reproach, "butyou have also promised me to refer it to Father Christopher."

"Ha! will you now draw back?" said Renzo.

"No, no," said Lucy, again alarmed, "no, no, I have promised, and willperform. But you have compelled me to it by your own impetuosity. Godforbid that----"

"Why will you prognosticate evil, Lucy? God knows we wrong no person."

"Well, well," said Lucy, "I will hope for the best."

Renzo would have wished to prolong the conversation, in order to allotto each their several parts for the morrow, but the night drew on, andhe reluctantly felt himself compelled to depart.

The night was passed, by all three, in that state of agitation andtrouble which always precedes an important enterprise whose issue isuncertain. Renzo returned early in the morning, and Agnes and he busiedthemselves in concerting the operations of the evening. Lucy was a merespectator; but although she disapproved these measures in her heart, shestill promised to do the best she could.

"Will you go to the convent, to speak to Father Christopher, as hedesired you last night?" said Agnes to Renzo.

"Oh! no," replied he, "the father would soon read in my countenance thatthere was something on foot; and if he interrogated me, I should beobliged to tell him. You had better send some one."

"I will send Menico."

"Yes, that will do," replied Renzo, as he hurried off to make fartherarrangements.

Agnes went to a neighbouring house to obtain Menico, a smart lad oftwelve years of age, who, by the way of cousins and sisters-in-law, wasa sort of nephew to the dame. She asked and obtained permission of hisparents to keep him all day "for a particular service." She took himhome, and after giving him breakfast, told him he must go toPescarenico, and show himself to Father Christopher, who would send himback with a message.

"_Father Christopher_, you understand; that nice old man, with a whitebeard; him they call the Saint."

"I know him, I know him!" said Menico: "he speaks so kindly to thechildren, and often gives them pictures."

"Yes! that is he; and if, Menico, if he tells you to wait near theconvent until he has an answer ready, don't stray away; don't go to thelake to throw stones in the water with the boys; nor to see them fish,nor----"

"Poh! aunt, I am no longer a baby."

"Well, behave well, and when you return with the answer, I will give youthese new _parpagliole_."[3]

[3] A sort of coin.

During the remainder of this long morning, several strange thingsoccurred, calculated to infuse suspicion into the already troubled mindsof Lucy and her mother. A mendicant, but not in rags like others of hiskind, and with a dark and sinister countenance, narrowly observing everyobject around him, entered to ask alms. A piece of bread was presentedto him, which he received with ill-dissembled indifference. Then, with amixture of impudence and hesitation, he made many enquiries, to whichAgnes endeavoured to return evasive replies. When about to depart, hepretended to mistake the door, and went through the one that led to thestairs. They called to him, "Stay, stay! where are you going, good man?this way." He returned, excusing himself with an affectation ofhumility, to which he felt it difficult to compose his hard and sternfeatures. After him, they saw pass, from time to time, other strangepeople. One entered the house, under pretence of asking the road;another stopped before the gate, and glanced furtively into the room, asif to avoid suspicion. Agnes went often to the door of the house duringthe remainder of the day, with an undefined dread of seeing some oneapproach who might cause them alarm. These mysterious visitations,however, ceased towards noon, but they had left an impression ofimpending evil on their minds, which they felt it impossible altogetherto suppress.

To explain to the reader the true character of these suspiciouswanderers, we must recur to Don Roderick, whom we left alone, in thehall of his palace, at the departure of Father Christopher. The more hereflected on his interview with the friar, the more was he enraged andashamed, that he should have dared to come to him with the rebuke ofNathan to David on his lips. He paced with hurried steps through theapartment, and as he gazed at the portraits of his ancestors, warriors,senators, and abbots, which hung against its walls, he felt hisindignation at the insult which had been offered him increase. Abase-born friar to speak thus to one of noble birth! He formed plans ofvengeance, and discarded them, without his being willing to acknowledgeit to himself. The prediction of the father again sounded in his ears,and caused an unaccustomed perplexity. Restless and undetermined, herang the bell, and ordered a servant to excuse him to the company, andto say to them, that urgent business prevented his seeing them again.The servant returned with the intelligence that the guests had departed."And the Count Attilio?" asked Don Roderick.

"He has gone with the gentlemen, my lord."

"Well; six followers to accompany me; quickly. My sword, cloak, and hat.Be quick."

The servant left the room, and returned in a few moments with a richsword, which his master girded on; he then threw the cloak around hisshoulders, and donned his hat with its waving plumes with an air ofproud defiance. He then passed into the street, followed by six armedruffians, taking the road to Lecco. The peasantry and tradesmen shrunkfrom his approach; their profound and timid salutations received nonotice from him; indeed, he acknowledged but by a slight inclination ofthe head those of the neighbouring gentry, whose rank, however, wasincontestably inferior to his own. Indeed, the only man whosesalutations he condescended to return upon an equal footing was theSpanish governor. In order to get rid of his _ennui_, and banish the

idea of the monk and his imprecations, he entered the house of agentleman, where a party was met together, and was received with thatapparent cordiality which it is a necessary policy to manifest towardsthe powerful who are held in fear. On his return at night to his palace,he found Count Attilio seated at supper. Don Roderick, full of thought,took a chair, but said little.

Scarcely was the table cleared, and the servants departed, when thecount, beginning to rally his dull companion, said, "Cousin, when willyou pay me my wager?"

"San Martin's day has not yet passed."

"Well, you will have to pay it; for all the saints in the calendar maypass, before you----"

"We will see about that!" said Don Roderick.

"Cousin, you would play the politician, but you cannot deceive me; I amso certain that I have won the wager, that I stand ready for another."

"Why!"

"Why? because the father--the father--in short, this friar has convertedyou."

"One of your fine imaginations, truly!"

"Converted, cousin, converted, I tell you; I rejoice at it; it will be afine spectacle to see you penitent, with your eyes cast down! And howflattering to the father! he don't catch such fish every day. Beassured, he will bring you forward as an example to others; your actionswill be trumpeted from the pulpit!"

"Enough, enough!" interrupted Don Roderick, half annoyed, and halfdisposed to laugh. "I will double the wager with you, if you please."

"The devil! perhaps _you_ have converted the father!"

"Do not speak of him; but as to the wager, San Martin will decide." Thecuriosity of the count was aroused; he made many enquiries, which DonRoderick evaded, referring him to the day of decision.

The following morning, when he awoke, Don Roderick was "himself again."The various emotions that had agitated him after his interview with thefather, had now resolved themselves into the simple desire of revenge.Hardly risen, he sent for Griso.--"Something serious," muttered theservant to whom the order was given; as this _Griso_ was nothing lessthan the leader of the _bravoes_ to whom was intrusted the mostdangerous and daring enterprises, who was the most trusted by themaster, and the most devoted to him, from gratitude and interest. Thisman had been guilty of murder; he had fled from the pursuit of justiceto the palace of Don Roderick, who took him under his protection, andthus sheltered him from the pursuit of the law. He, therefore, stoodpledged to the performance of any deed of villany that should be imposedon him.

"Griso," said Don Roderick, "you must show your skill in thisemergency. Before to-morrow, this Lucy must be in this palace."

"It shall never be said that Griso failed to execute a command from hisillustrious protector."

"Take as many men as are necessary, and dispose of them as appears toyou best; only let the thing succeed. But be careful that no harm bedone to her."

"Signor, a little fright--we cannot do less."

"Fright--may be unavoidable. But touch not a hair of her head; and,above all, treat her with the greatest respect. Do you hear?"

"Signor, I could not take a flower from the bush, and carry it to yourHighness, without touching it; but I will do only what is absolutelynecessary."

"Well; I trust thee. And--how wilt thou do it?"

"I was thinking, signor. It is fortunate that her cottage is at theextremity of the village; we have need of some place of concealment; andnot far from her house there is that old uninhabited building in themiddle of the fields, that one--but, your Highness knows nothing ofthese matters--which was burnt a few years ago, and, not having beenrepaired, is now deserted, except by the witches, who keep all cowardlyrascals away from it; so that we may take safe possession."

"Well; what then?"

Here Griso went on to propose, and Don Roderick to approve, until theyhad agreed upon the manner of conducting the enterprise to the desiredconclusion, without leaving a trace of the authors of it: and also uponthe manner of imposing silence, not only upon poor Agnes, but also uponthe more impatient and fiery Renzo.

"If this rash fellow fall in your way by chance," added Don Roderick,"you had best give him, on his shoulders, something he will remember; sothat he will be more likely to obey the order to remain quiet, which hewill receive to-morrow. Do you hear?"

"Yes, yes, leave it to me," said Griso, as, with an air of importance,he took his leave.

The morning was spent in reconnoitring,--the mendicant of whom we havespoken was Griso; the others were the villains whom he employed, togain a more perfect knowledge of the scene of action. They returned tothe palace to arrange and mature the enterprise;--all these mysteriousmovements were not effected without rousing the suspicions of the olddomestic, who, partly by listening, and partly by conjecture, came tothe knowledge of the concerted attempt of the evening. This knowledgecame a little too late, for already a body of ruffians were laying inwait in the old house. However, the poor old man, although well aware ofthe dangerous game he played, did not fail to perform his promise; heleft the palace on some slight pretence, and hurried to the convent.Griso and his band left shortly after, and met at the old building,--the

former had previously left orders at the palace, that, at the approachof night, there should be a litter brought thither,--he then despatchedthree of the bravoes to the village inn; one to remain at its entranceto observe the movements on the road, and to give notice when theinhabitants should have retired to rest; the other two to occupythemselves within as idlers, gaming and drinking. Griso, with the restof the troop, continued in ambush, on the watch.

All this was going forward, and the sun was about to set, when Renzoentered the cottage, and said to Lucy and her mother, "Tony and Jervaseare ready; I am going with them to sup at the inn; at the sound of the'Ave Maria,' we will come for you; take courage, Lucy, all depends on amoment."

"Oh, yes," said Lucy, "courage;" with a voice that contradicted herwords.

When Renzo and his companions arrived at the inn, they found the doorblockaded by a sentinel, who, leaning on one side of it, with his armsfolded on his breast, occupied half its width; at the same time rollinghis eagle eyes first to the right and then to the left, displayingalternately their blacks and their whites. A flat cap of crimson velvet,placed sideways, covered the half of the _long lock_, which, parted on adark forehead, was fastened behind with a comb. He held in his hand aclub; his arms, properly speaking, were concealed beneath his garments.When Renzo evinced a desire to enter, he looked at him fixedly withoutmoving; of this, the young man, wishing to decline all conversation,took no notice, but, beckoning to his companions to follow his example,slid between the figure and the door-post. Having gained an entrance, hebeheld the other two bravoes with a large mug between them, seated atplay; they stared at him with a look of enquiry, making signs to eachother, and then to their comrade at the door. This was not unobserved byRenzo, and his mind was filled with a vague sentiment of suspicion andalarm. The innkeeper came for his orders; which were, "a private room,and supper for three."

"Who are those strangers?" asked he of the landlord, when he came in toset the table.

"I do not know them," replied he.

"How! neither of them?"

"The first rule of our trade," said he, spreading the cloth, "is, not tomeddle with the affairs of others; and, what is wonderful, even ourwomen are not curious. It is enough for us that customers pay well; whothey are, or who they are not, matters nothing. And now, I will bringyou a dish of polpette, the like of which you have never eaten."

When he returned to the kitchen, and was employed in taking the polpettefrom the fire, one of the bravoes approached, and said, in an undertone, "Who are those men?"

"Good people of this village," replied the host, pouring the mince-meatinto a dish.

"Well; but what are their names? Who are they?" insisted he, in a rough

voice.

"One is called Renzo," replied the host; "esteemed a good youth, and anexcellent weaver of silk. The other is a peasant, whose name is Tony; ajovial fellow,--it is a pity he has no more money, for he would spend itall here. The other is a simpleton, who eats when they feed him. By yourleave----" So saying, he slipped past him, with the dish in his hand,and carried it to the place of its destination.

"How do you know?" said Renzo, continuing the conversation from thepoint at which it had been dropped, "how do you know that they arehonest men, when you are not acquainted with them?"

"From their actions, my good fellow; men are known by their actions. Hewho drinks wine without criticising it; he who shows the face of theking on the counter without prattling; he who does not quarrel withother customers, and, if he has a blow or two to give, goes away fromthe inn, so that the poor host need not suffer from it; _he_ is anhonest man. But what the devil makes you so inquisitive, when you areengaged to be married, and should have other things in your head? Andwith this mince-meat before you, which would make the dead revive?" Sosaying, he returned to the kitchen.

The supper was not very agreeable; the two guests would have lingeredover the unusual luxury; but Renzo, preoccupied, and troubled and uneasyat the singular appearance of the strangers, longed for the hour ofdeparture. He conversed in brief sentences, and in an under tone, sothat he might not be overheard by them.

"What an odd thing it is," blundered Jervase, "that Renzo wishes to bemarried, and has needed----" Renzo looked sternly at him. "Keep silence,you beast!" said Tony to him, accompanying the epithet with a cuff.Jervase obeyed, and the remainder of the repast was consumed in silence.Renzo observed a strict sobriety, in order to keep his companions undersome restraint. Supper being over, he paid the reckoning, and preparedto depart: they were obliged to pass the three men again, and encountera repetition of their eager gaze. When a few steps distant from the inn,Renzo, looking back, perceived that he was followed by the two whom hehad left seated in the kitchen. He stopped; observing this, they stoppedalso, and retraced their steps.

If he had been near enough, he would have heard a few words of strangeimport; "It would be a glorious thing," said one of the scoundrels,"without reckoning the cash, if we could tell at the palace how we hadflattened their ribs,--without the direction, too, of Signor Griso."

"And spoil the whole work," added the other; "but see! he stops to lookat us! Oh! if it were only later! But let us turn back, not to createsuspicion. People are coming on all sides; let us wait till they go totheir rests."

Then was heard in the village the busy hum of the evening, whichprecedes the solemn stillness of the night; then were seen womenreturning from their daily labour, with their infants on their backs,and leading by the hand the older children, to whom they were repeatingthe evening prayers; men with their spades, and other instruments ofculture, thrown over their shoulders. At the opening of the cottage

doors, was discerned the bright light of the fires, kindled in order toprepare their meagre suppers; in the street there were salutations givenand returned, brief and mournful observations on the poverty of theharvest, and the scarcity of the year; and at intervals was heard themeasured strokes of the bell which announced the departure of the day.

When Renzo saw that the two men no longer followed him, he continued hisway, giving instructions, in a low voice, from time to time, to his twocompanions. It was dark night when they arrived at the cottage of Lucy.

"Between the acting of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream."

Lucy endured many hours the anguish of such a dream; and Agnes, evenAgnes, the author of the plot, was thoughtful and silent. But, in themoment of action, new and various emotions pass swiftly through themind: at one instant, that which had appeared difficult becomesperfectly easy; at another, obstacles present themselves which werenever before thought of, the imagination is filled with alarm, the limbsrefuse their office, and the heart fails at the promise it had givenwith such security. At the gentle knock of Renzo, Lucy was seized withsuch terror, that, at the moment, she resolved to suffer any thing, toendure a separation from him for ever, rather than execute herresolution; but when, with an assured and encouraging air, he said, "Allis ready; let us begone," she had neither heart nor time to suggestdifficulties. Agnes and Renzo placed her between them, and theadventurous company set forward. Slowly and quietly they took the paththat led around the village,--it would have been nearer to pass directlythrough it, to Don Abbondio's house, but their object was to avoidobservation. Upon reaching the house, the lovers remained concealed onone side of it, Agnes a little in advance, so as to be prepared to speakto Perpetua as soon as she should make her appearance. Tony, withJervase, who did nothing, but _without_ whom nothing could be done,courageously knocked at the door.

"Who is there, at this hour?" cried a voice from the window, which theyrecognised to be that of Perpetua. "No one is sick, that I know of. Whatis the matter?"

"It is I," replied Tony, "with my brother; we want to speak with thecurate."

"Is this an hour for Christians?" replied Perpetua, briskly. "Cometo-morrow."

"Hear me; I will come, or not, as I choose; I have received I can't tellhow much money, and I have come to balance the small account that youknow of. I have here twenty-five fine new pieces; but if he cannot seeme,--well--I know how and where to spend them."

"Wait, wait. I will speak to you in a moment. But why come at thishour?"

"If you can change the hour, I am willing; as for me, I am here, and, ifyou don't want me to stay, I'll go away."

"No, no, wait a moment; I will give you an answer." So saying, sheclosed the window. As soon as she disappeared, Agnes separated herselffrom the lovers, saying to Lucy, in a low voice, "Courage, it is but amoment." She then entered into conversation with Tony at the door, thatPerpetua, on opening it, might suppose she had been accidentally passingby, and that Tony had detained her.

CHAPTER VIII.

"Carneades! who was he?" said Don Abbondio to himself, seated in hislarge chair, with a book open before him. "Carneades! this name I haveeither heard or read of; he must have been a man of study, a scholar ofantiquity; but who the devil _was_ he?" Now, it should be known, that itwas Don Abbondio's custom to read a little every day, and that a curate,his neighbour, who had a small library, furnished him with books, oneafter the other, as they came to hand. That with which he was at thismoment engaged, was a panegyric on St. Carlos, delivered many yearsbefore in the cathedral of Milan. The saint was there compared for hislove of study to Archimedes; which comparison the poor curate wellunderstood, inasmuch as this did not require, from the various anecdotesrelated of him, an erudition very extensive. But the author went on toliken him also to Carneades, and here the poor reader was at fault. Atthis moment, Perpetua announced the visit of Tony.

"At such an hour?" said Don Abbondio.

"What do you expect? They have no discretion. But if you do not shootthe bird flying----"

"Who knows if I shall ever be able to do it?" continued he. "Let himcome in. But are you very sure that it is Tony?"

"The devil!" said Perpetua, as she descended, and, opening the door,demanded, "Where are you?"

Tony appeared, in company with Agnes, who accosted Perpetua by name.

"Good evening, Agnes," said she; "whence come you at this hour?"

"I come from----," naming a neighbouring village. "And do you know," shecontinued, "that I have been delayed on your account?"

"On my account!" exclaimed she; and turning to the two brothers, said,"Go in, and I will follow you."

"Because," resumed Agnes, "a gossiping woman of the company said--wouldyou believe it?--obstinately persisted in saying, that you were neverengaged to Beppo Suolavecchia, nor to Anselmo Lunghigna, because theywould not have you. I maintained that you had refused them both----"

"Certainly I did. Oh! what a liar! oh! what a great liar! Who was it?"

"Don't ask me; I don't wish to make mischief."

"You must tell me; you must tell me. Oh! what a lie!"

"So it was; but you can't believe how sorry I felt not to know all thestory, that I might have confuted her."

"It is an infamous lie," said Perpetua. "As to Beppo, every oneknows----"

In front of Don Abbondio's house, there was a short and narrow lane,between two old cottages, which opened at the farther end into thefields. Agnes drew Perpetua thither, as if for the purpose of talkingwith her more freely. When they were at a spot, from which they couldnot see what passed before the curate's house, Agnes coughed loudly.

This was the concerted signal, which, being heard by Renzo, he, withLucy on his arm, crept quietly along the wall, approached the door,opened it softly, and entered the passage, where the two brothers werewaiting their approach. They all ascended the stairs on tiptoe; thebrothers advanced towards the door of the chamber; the lovers remainedconcealed on the landing.

"_Deo gratias_," said Tony, in a clear voice.

"Tony, eh? come in," replied the voice from within. Tony obeyed, openingthe door just enough to admit himself and brother, one at a time. Therays of light, which shone unexpectedly through this opening on thedarkness by which Renzo and Lucy were protected, made the latter trembleas if already discovered. The brothers entered, and Tony closed thedoor; the lovers remained motionless without; the beating of poor Lucy'sheart might be heard in the stillness.

Don Abbondio was, as we have said, seated in his arm chair, wrapped ina morning-gown, with an old cap on his head, in the fashion of a tiara,which formed a sort of cornice around his face, and shaded it from thedim light of a little lamp. Two thick curls which escaped from beneaththe cap, two thick eyebrows, two thick mustachios, a dense tuft alonghis chin, all quite grey, and studding his sun-burnt and wrinkledvisage, might be compared to snowy bushes projecting from a rock bymoonlight.

"Ah! ah!" was his salutation, as he took off his spectacles and placedthem on his book.

"Does the curate think I have come at too late an hour?" said Tony,bowing: Jervase awkwardly followed his example.

"Certainly, it is late; late on all accounts. Do you know that I amill?"

"Oh! I am sorry."

"Did you not hear that I was sick, and could not be seen? But why isthis boy with you?"

"For company, Signor Curate."

"Well; let us see."

"Here are twenty-five new pieces, with the image of St. Ambrose onhorseback," said Tony, drawing forth a little bundle from his pocket.

"Give here," said Don Abbondio; and taking the bundle, he opened it,counted the money, and found it correct.

"Now, sir, you will give me the necklace of my Teela."

"Certainly," replied Don Abbondio; and going to an old press, he drewforth the pledge, and carefully returned it.

"Now," said Tony, "you will please to put it in black and white?"

"Eh!" said Don Abbondio, "how suspicious the world has become! Do younot trust me?"

"How! Sir. If I trust you! you do me wrong. But since my name is on yourbook on the side of debtor----"

"Well, well," interrupted Don Abbondio; and seating himself at thetable, he began to write, repeating, with a loud voice, the words asthey came from his pen. In the meanwhile, Tony, and, at a sign from him,Jervase, placed themselves before the table, in such a manner as todeprive the writer of a view of the door; and, as if from heedlessness,moved their feet about on the floor, as a signal to those without, andalso for the purpose of drowning the noise of their footsteps; of thisDon Abbondio, occupied in writing, took no notice. At the grating soundsof the feet Renzo drew Lucy trembling into the room, and stood with herbehind the brothers. Don Abbondio, having finished writing, read it overattentively, folded the paper, and reaching it to Tony, said, "Will yoube satisfied now?" Tony, on receiving it, retired on one side, Jervaseon the other, and, behold, in the midst, Renzo and Lucy! Don Abbondio,affrighted, astonished, and enraged, took an immediate resolution; andwhile Renzo was uttering the words, "Sir Curate, in the presence ofthese witnesses, this is my wife," and the poor Lucy had begun, "Andthis is----" he had snatched from the table the cloth which covered it,throwing on the ground books, pen, ink, and paper, and in haste lettingfall the light, he threw it over and held it wrapped around the face ofLucy, at the same time roaring out, "Perpetua! Perpetua! treachery!help!" The wick, dying in the socket, sent a feeble and flickering lightover the figure of Lucy, who, entirely overcome, stood like a statue,making no effort to free herself. The light died away, and left them indarkness; Don Abbondio quitted the poor girl, and felt cautiously alongthe wall for a door that led to an inner chamber; having found it, heentered, and locked himself in, crying out, "Perpetua! treachery! help!out of the house! out of the house!" All was confusion in the apartmenthe had quitted; Renzo, groping in the dark to find the curate, hadfollowed the sound of his voice, and was knocking at the door of theroom, crying, "Open, open; don't make such an outcry;" Lucy calling toRenzo, in a supplicating voice, "Let us go, let us go, for the love ofGod!" Tony, creeping on all fours, and feeling along the floor for hisreceipt, which had been dropped in the tumult; the poor Jervase, cryingand jumping, and endeavouring to find the door on the stairs, so as toescape with whole bones.

In the midst of this turmoil, we cannot stop to make reflections; butRenzo, causing disturbance at night in another person's house, andholding the master of it besieged in an inner room, has all theappearance of an oppressor; when in fact he was the oppressed. DonAbbondio, assaulted in his own house, while he was tranquilly attendingto his affairs, appeared the victim; when, in fact, it was he who hadinflicted the injury. Thus goes the world, or rather, thus it went inthe seventeenth century.

The besieged, seeing that the enemy gave no signs of retreat, opened awindow which looked out upon the churchyard, and cried, "Help, help!"The moon shone brightly--every object could be clearly discerned as inthe day; but a deep repose rested over all--there was no indication of aliving soul. Contiguous to the church, and on that side of it whichfronted the parsonage, was a small habitation in which slept the sexton.Aroused by this strange outcry, he jumped from his bed, opened the smallwindow, with his eyelids glued together all the time, and cried, "Whatis the matter?"

"Run, Ambrose, run! help! people in the house!" cried Don Abbondio. "Icome in a moment," replied he, drawing in his head; he closed hiscurtain, and half stupid, and half affrighted, thought of an expedientto bring more help than had been required of him, without risking hisown life in the contest, whatever it might be. He hastily took hisbreeches from the bed, and putting them under his arm, like an operahat, ran to the belfry and pulled away lustily.

_Ton, Ton, Ton_; the peasant aroused, sat up in his bed; the boy,sleeping in the hay-loft, listened eagerly, and sprang on his feet;"What is the matter? What is it? Fire! Robbers!" Each woman entreatedher husband not to stir, but to leave it to others: such as were cowardsobeyed, whilst the inquisitive and courageous took their arms, and rantowards the noise.

Long before this, however, the alarm had been given to other personagesof our story; the bravoes in one place; and Agnes and Perpetua inanother. It is necessary to relate briefly how the former had beenoccupied, since we last took leave of them; those at the old house, andthose at the inn. The latter, when they ascertained that theinhabitants of the village had retired to rest, and that the road wasclear, went to the cottage of Lucy, and found that a perfect stillnessreigned within. They then returned to the old house to give in theirreport to Signor Griso. He immediately put on a slouched hat, with apilgrim's habit, and staff, saying, "Let us act as becometh soldiers;cautious, quiet, and attentive to orders." Then leading the way, he,with his company, arrived at the cottage, by a route different from thattaken by our poor cottagers. Griso kept the band a few steps off, wentforward alone to explore, and seeing all deserted and quiet on theoutside, he beckoned to two of them, ordered them to mount verycarefully and quietly the wall which enclosed the court-yard, and toconceal themselves on the other side behind a thick fig-tree, which hehad observed in the morning. That being done, he knocked gently at thedoor, with the intention to call himself a pilgrim, who had wanderedfrom his way, and request shelter until the morning. No answer; heknocked again, louder; not a sound! He then called a third robber, madehim also descend into the yard, with orders to unfasten the bolt on theinside, so that they might have free entrance. All was performed with

the utmost caution, and the most complete success. Griso then called therest, and made some of them conceal themselves by the side of thosebehind the fig-tree; he then opened the door very softly, placed twocentinels on the inside of it, and advanced to the lower chamber. Heknocked; he waited--and well might wait; he raised the latch; no onefrom within said, "Who is there?" Nothing could go on better. He thencalled the robbers from the fig-tree, and with them entered the roomwhere he had in the morning so villanously received the loaf of bread.He drew out his flint, tinder-box, and matches, and striking a light,proceeded to the inner chamber; it was empty! He returned to the stairs,and listened; solitude and silence! He left two to keep watch below, andwith the others carefully ascended the stairs, cursing in his heart thecreaking of the steps. He reached the summit, pushed softly open thedoor of the first room, and listened if any one breathed or moved: noone! He advanced, shading his face with the lamp, and perceived a bed;it was made, and perfectly smooth, with the covering arranged in orderon the bolster! He shrugged his shoulders, and returning to the company,made a sign to them, that he was going into the other room, and thatthey should remain quietly behind,--he did so, and had the same success;all deserted and quiet.

"What the devil's this?" said he aloud; "some traitorous dog has playedthe spy!" They then searched with less ceremony the rest of the house,putting every thing out of its place. Meanwhile those at the doorwayheard a light step approaching in the street,--they kept very quiet,thinking it would pass on; but, behold! it stopped exactly in front ofthe cottage! It was Menico, who had come in haste from the convent, towarn Agnes and her daughter to escape from the house, and take refuge_there_, because--the _because_ is already known. He was surprised tofind the door unbolted, and entering with a vague sentiment of alarm,found himself seized by two ruffians, who said in a menacing tone,"Hush! be quiet, or you die!" He uttered a cry, at which one struck hima blow on the mouth, the other placed his hand on his sword to inspirehim with fear. The boy trembled like a leaf, and did not attempt tostir; but all at once was heard the first sound of the bell, andimmediately after, a thundering peel burst forth. "The wicked are alwayscowards," says a Milanese proverb; alarmed at the sound, the bravoes letgo in haste the arms of Menico, and fled away hastily to the old house,to join the main body of their comrades. Menico, finding himself free,also fled, by the way of the fields, towards the belfry, naturallysupposing he would find some one there. As to the other villains abovestairs, the terrible sound made the same impression on them; amazed andperplexed, they hit one against the other, in striving to find thenearest way to the door. Nevertheless, they were brave, and accustomedto confront any known danger; but here was something unusual, anundetermined peril, and they became panic-struck. It now required allthe superiority of Griso to keep them together, so that there should bea retreat, and not a flight. He succeeded, however, in assembling themin the middle of the court-yard. "Halt, halt," cried he, "pistols inhand, knives ready, all in order, and then we will march. Cowards! forshame! fall behind me, and keep together." Reduced to order, theyfollowed him in silence.

We will leave them, in order to give an account of Agnes and Perpetua,whom we left at the end of the little lane, engaged in conversation.Agnes had managed to draw the latter off to some distance, by dint ofappearing to give great heed to her story, which she urged on by an

occasional "Certainly; now I comprehend; that is plain; and then? andhe? and you?" In the midst of an important part of her narrative, thedeep silence of the night was broken by the cry of Don Abbondio for"_help!_" "Mercy! what is the matter?" cried Perpetua, and prepared torun.

"What is the matter? what is the matter?" cried Agnes, holding her bythe gown.

"Mercy! did you not hear?" replied she, struggling to get free.

"What is the matter? what is the matter?" repeated Agnes, holding herfirmly by the arm.

"Devil of a woman!" exclaimed Perpetua, still struggling. Then was heardat a distance the light scream of Menico.

"Mercy!" cried Agnes also, and they both ran at full speed; the sound ofthe bell, which now succeeded, spurred them on. Perpetua arrived first,and, behold, at the door, Tony, Jervase, Renzo, and Lucy, who had foundthe stairs, and, at the terrible sound of the bell, were flying to someplace of safety.

"What is the matter? What is the matter?" demanded Perpetua, out ofbreath, of the brothers. They answered her with a violent push, and fledaway. "And you! what are you here for?" said she then to Renzo and Lucy.They made no reply. She then ascended the stairs in haste, to seek hermaster. The two lovers (still lovers) stood before Agnes, who, alarmedand grieved, said, "Ah! you are here! How has it gone? Why did the bellring?"

"Home, home!" said Renzo, "before the people gather." But Menico nowappeared running to meet them. He was out of breath, and hardly able tocry out, "Back! back! by the way of the convent. There is the devil atthe house," continued he, panting; "I saw him, I did; he was going tokill me. The Father Christopher says you must come quickly.--I saw him,I did.--I am glad I found you all here,--I will tell you all when we aresafe off."

Renzo, who was the most self-possessed of the party, thought it best tofollow his advice. "Let us follow him," said he, to the females. Theysilently obeyed, and the little company moved on. They hastily crossedthe churchyard, passing through a private street, into the fields. Theywere not many paces distant, before the people began to collect, eachone asking of his neighbour what was the matter, and no one being ableto answer the question. The first that arrived ran to the door of thechurch: it was fastened. They then looked through a little window intothe belfry, and demanded the cause of the alarm. When Ambrose heard aknown voice, and knew, by the hum, that there was an assemblage ofpeople without, he hastily slipped on that part of his dress which hehad carried under his arm, and opened the church door.

"What is all this tumult? What is the matter? Where is it?"

"Where is it? Do you not know? Why, in the curate's house. Run, run."They rushed in a crowd thither; looked,--listened. All was quiet. Thestreet door was fastened; not a window open; not a sound within.

"Who is within there? Holla! holla! Signor Curate, Signor Curate!"

Don Abbondio, who, as soon as he was relieved by the flight of theinvaders, had retired from the window, and closed it, was nowquarrelling with Perpetua for leaving him to bear the brunt of thebattle alone. When he heard himself called by name, by the peopleoutside, he repented of the rashness which had produced this undesiredresult.

"What has happened? Who are they? Where are they? What have they done toyou?" cried a hundred voices at a time.

"There is no one here now; I am much obliged to you.--Return to yourhouses."

"But who _has_ been here? Where have they gone? What has happened?"

"Bad people, bad people, who wander about in the night; but they haveall fled.--Return to your houses. I thank you for your kindness." Sosaying, he retired and shut the window. There was a general murmur ofdisappointment through the crowd. Some laughed, some swore, someshrugged up their shoulders and went home; but at this moment a personcame running towards them, panting and breathless. He lived at the houseopposite to the cottage of Lucy, and had witnessed from the window thealarm of the bravoes, when Griso endeavoured to collect them in thecourt-yard. When he recovered breath, he cried, "What do you do here,friends? The devil is not here, he is down at the house of AgnesMondella. Armed people are in it. It seems they wish to murder apilgrim; but who knows what the devil it is?"

"What! what! what!" And then began a tumultuous conversation. "Let usgo. How many are there? How many are we? Who are they?--The constable!the constable!"

"I am here," replied the constable, from the midst of the crowd, "I amhere, but you must assist me; you must obey.--Quick;--where is thesexton? To the bell, to the bell. Quick; some one run to Lecco to askfor succour.--Come this way." The tumult was great, and as they wereabout to depart for the cottage of Agnes, another messenger came flying,and exclaimed, "Run, friends;--robbers who are carrying off a pilgrim.They are already out of the village! On! on! this way."

In obedience to this command they moved in a mass, without waiting theorders of their leader, towards the cottage of Lucy. While the armyadvances, many of those at the head of the column, slacken their pace,not unwilling to leave the post of honour to their more adventurousfriends in the rear. The confused multitude at length reach the scene ofaction. The traces of recent invasion were manifest,--the door open, thebolts loosened, but the invaders, where were they? They entered thecourt, advanced into the house, and called loudly, "Agnes! Lucy!Pilgrim! Where is the pilgrim! Did Stephano dream that he saw him? No,no, Carlandrea saw him also. Hallo! Pilgrim! Agnes! Lucy! No reply! Theyhave killed them! they have killed them!" There was then a propositionto follow the murderers, which would have been acceded to, had not avoice from the crowd cried out, that Agnes and Lucy were in safety insome house. Satisfied with this, they soon dispersed to their homes, to

relate to their wives that which had happened. The next day, however,the constable being in his field, and, with his foot resting on hisspade, meditating on the mysteries of the past night, was accosted bytwo men, much resembling, in their appearance, those whom Don Abbondiohad encountered a few days before. They very unceremoniously forbade himto make a deposition of the events of the night before the magistrate,and, if questioned by any of the gossips of the villagers, to maintain aperfect silence on pain of death.

Our fugitives for a while continued their flight, rapidly and silently,utterly overwhelmed by the fatigue of their flight, by their lateanxiety, by vexation and disappointment at their failure, and a confusedapprehension of some future danger. As the sound of the bell died awayon the ear, they slackened their pace. Agnes, gathering breath andcourage, first broke the silence, by asking Renzo what had been done atthe curate's? He related briefly his melancholy story. "And who," saidshe to Menico, "was the devil in the house? What did you mean by that?"The boy narrated that of which he had been an eye-witness, and whichimparted a mingled feeling of alarm and gratitude to the minds of hisauditors,--alarm at the obstinacy of Don Roderick in pursuing hispurpose, and gratitude that they had thus escaped his snares. Theycaressed affectionately the boy who had been placed in so great dangeron their account: Renzo gave him a piece of money in addition to thenew coin already promised, and desired him to say nothing of the messagegiven him by Father Christopher. "Now, return home," said Agnes,"because thy family will be anxious about thee: you have been a goodboy; go home, and pray the Lord that we may soon meet again." The boyobeyed, and our travellers advanced in silence. Lucy kept close to hermother, dexterously but gently declining the arm of her lover. She feltabashed, even in the midst of all this confusion, at having been so longand so familiarly alone with him, while expecting that a few momentslonger would have seen her his wife: but this dream had vanished, andshe felt most sensitively the apparent indelicacy of their situation.They at length reached the open space before the church of the convent.Renzo advanced towards the door, and pushed it gently. It opened, andthey beheld, by the light of the moon, which then fell upon his pallidface and silvery beard, the form of Father Christopher, who was there inanxious expectation of their arrival. "God be thanked!" said he, as theyentered. By his side stood a capuchin, whose office was that of sextonto the church, whom he had persuaded to leave the door half open, and towatch with him. He had been very unwilling to submit to thisinconvenient and dangerous condescension, which it required all theauthority of the holy father to overcome; but, perceiving who thecompany were, he could endure no longer. Taking the father aside, hewhispered, to him, "But Father--Father--at night--in the church--withwomen--shut--the rules--but Father!----" "Omnia munda mundis," repliedhe, turning meekly to Friar Fazio, and forgetting that he did notunderstand Latin. But this forgetfulness was exactly the most fortunatething in the world. If the father had produced arguments, Friar Faziowould not have failed to oppose them; but these mysterious words, heconcluded, must contain a solution of all his doubts. He acquiesced,saying, "Very well; you know more than I do."

Father Christopher then turned to our little company, who were standingin suspense, by the light of a lamp which was flickering before thealtar. "Children," said he, "thank the Lord, who has preserved you fromgreat peril. Perhaps at this moment----" and he entered into an

explanation of the reasons which had induced him to send for them to theconvent, little suspecting that they knew more than he did, andsupposing that Menico had found them tranquil at their home, before thearrival of the robbers. No one undeceived him, not even Lucy, althoughsuffering the keenest anguish at practising dissimulation with such aman; but it was a night of confusion and duplicity.

"Now," continued he, "you perceive, my children, that this country is nolonger safe for you. It is your country, I know; you were born here; youhave wronged no one: but such is the will of God! It is a trial,children, support it with patience, with faith, without murmuring; andbe assured, there will come a day, in which you will see the wisdom ofall that now befalls you. I have procured you a refuge for a season, andI hope you will soon be able to return safely to your home; at allevents, God will provide, and I his minister will faithfully exertmyself to serve you, my poor persecuted children. You," continued he,turning to the females, "can remain at ----. There you will be beyonddanger, and yet not far from home; go to our convent in that place, askfor the superior, give him this letter, he will be to you another FriarChristopher. And thou, my Renzo, thou must place thyself in safety fromthe impetuosity of others, and your own. Carry this letter to FatherBonaventura, of Lodi, in our convent at the eastern gate of Milan; hewill be to you a father, will advise you, and find you work, until youcan return to live here tranquilly. Now, go to the border of the lake,near the mouth of the Bione" (a stream a short distance from theconvent); "you will see there a small boat fastened; you must say, 'Aboat;' you will be asked for whom, answer, 'Saint Francis.' The boatmanwill receive you, will take you to the other side, where you will find acarriage, which will conduct you to ----. If any one should ask howFather Christopher came to have at his disposal such means of transportby land and by water, he would show little knowledge of the powerpossessed by a capuchin who held the reputation of a saint."

The charge of the houses remained to be thought of; the father receivedthe keys of them; Agnes, on consigning hers, thought with a sigh, thatthere was no need of keys, the house was open, the devil had been there,and it was doubtful if there remained any thing to be cared for.

"Before you go," said the father, "let us pray together to the Lord,that he may be with you in this journey, and always, and above all, thathe may give you strength to submit cheerfully to that which he hasordained." So saying, he knelt down; all did the same. Having prayed afew moments in silence, he pronounced with a low but distinct voice thefollowing words: "We pray thee also for the wretched man who has broughtus to this state. We should be unworthy of thy mercy if we did notearnestly solicit it for him: he has most need of it. We, in our sorrow,have the consolation of trusting in thee; we can still offer thee oursupplications, with thankfulness. But he--he is an enemy to thee! Ohwretched man! He dares to strive against thee: have pity on him, O Lord!touch his heart, soften his rebellious will, and bestow on him all thegood we would desire for ourselves."

Rising hastily, he then said, "Away, my children, there is no time tolose; God will go with you, his angel protect you: away." They keptsilence from emotion, and as they departed, the father added, "My hearttells me we shall soon meet again." Without waiting for a reply, heretired; the travellers pursued their way to the appointed spot, found

the boat, gave and received the watchword, and entered into it. Theboatmen made silently for the opposite shore: there was not a breath ofwind; the lake lay polished and smooth in the moonlight, agitated onlyby the dipping of the oars, which quivered in its gleam. The wavesbreaking on the sands of the shore, were heard deadly and slowly at adistance, mingled with the rippling of the waters between the pillars ofthe bridge.

The silent passengers cast a melancholy look behind at the mountains andthe landscape, illumined by the moon, and varied by multitudes ofshadows. They discerned villages, houses, cottages; the palace of DonRoderick, raised above the huts that crowded the base of the promontory,like a savage prowling in the dark over his slumbering prey. Lucy beheldit, and shuddered; then cast a glance beyond the declivity, towards herown little home, and beheld the top of the fig-tree which towered in thecourt-yard; moved at the sight, she buried her face in her hands, andwept in silence.

Farewell, ye mountains, source of waters! farewell to your variedsummits, familiar as the faces of friends! ye torrents, whose voiceshave been heard from infancy! Farewell! how melancholy the destiny ofone, who, bred up amid your scenes, bids you farewell! If voluntarilydeparting with the hope of future gain at this moment, the dream ofwealth loses its attraction, his resolution falters, and he would fainremain with you, were it not for the hope of benefiting you by hisprosperity. The more he advances into the level country, the more hisview becomes wearied with its uniform extent; the air appears heavy andlifeless: he proceeds sorrowfully and thoughtfully into the tumultuouscity; houses crowded against houses, street uniting with street, appearsto deprive him of the power to breathe; and in front of edifices admiredby strangers, he stops to recall, with restless desire, the image of thefield and the cottage which had long been the object of his wishes, andwhich, on his return to his mountains, he will make his own, should heacquire the wealth of which he is in pursuit.

But how much more sorrowful the moment of separation to him, who, havingnever sent a transient wish beyond the mountains, feels that theycomprise the limit of his earthly hopes, and yet is driven from them byan adverse fate; who is compelled to quit them to go into a foreignland, with scarcely a hope of return! Then he breaks forth into mournfulexclamations. "Farewell native cottage! where, many a time and oft, Ihave listened with eager ear, to distinguish, amidst the rumour offootsteps, the well-known sound of those long expected and anxiouslydesired. Farewell, ye scenes, where I had hoped to pass, tranquil andcontent, the remnant of my days! Farewell, thou sanctuary of God, wheremy soul has been filled with admiring thoughts of him, and my voice hasunited with others to sing his praise! Farewell! He, whom I worshippedwithin your walls, is not confined to temples made with hands; heaven ishis dwelling place, and the earth his footstool; he watches over hischildren, and, if he chastises them, it is in love, to prepare them forhigher and holier enjoyments."

Of such a nature, if not precisely the same, were the reflections ofLucy and her companions, as the bark carried them to the right bank ofthe Adda.

CHAPTER IX.

The shock which the boat received, as it struck against the shore,aroused Lucy from her reverie; they quitted the bark, and Renzo turnedto thank and reward the boatman. "I will take nothing--nothing," saidhe: "we are placed on earth to aid one another." The carriage was ready,the driver seated; its expected occupants took their places, and thehorses moved briskly on. Our travellers arrived then at Monza, which webelieve to have been the name of the place to which Father Christopherhad directed Renzo, a little after sunrise. The driver turned to an inn,where he appeared to be well acquainted, and demanded for them aseparate room. He, as well as the boatman, refused the offeredrecompence of Renzo; like the boatman, he had in view a reward, moredistant indeed, but more abundant; he withdrew his hand, and hastened tolook after his beast.

After an evening such as we have described, and a night passed inpainful thoughts both in regard to recent events and futureanticipations--disturbed, indeed, by the frequent joltings of theirincommodious vehicle,--our travellers felt a little rest in theirretired apartment at the inn highly necessary. They partook of a smallmeal together, not more in proportion to the prevailing want, than totheir own slender appetites; and recurred with a sigh to the delightfulfestivities, which, two days before, were to have accompanied theirhappy union. Renzo would willingly have remained with his companions allthe day, to secure their lodging and perform other little offices. Butthey strongly alleged the injunctions of Father Christopher, togetherwith the gossiping to which their continuing together would give rise,so that he at length acquiesced. Lucy could not conceal her tears; Renzowith difficulty restrained his; and, warmly pressing the hand of Agnes,he pronounced with a voice almost choked, "Till we meet again."

The mother and daughter would have been in great perplexity, had it notbeen for the kind driver, who had orders to conduct them to the convent,which was at a little distance from the village. Upon their arrivalthere, the guide requested the porter to call the superior: he appeared,and the letter of Father Christopher was delivered to him. "Oh, fromFather Christopher!" said he, recognising the handwriting. His voice andmanner told evidently that he uttered the name of one whom he regardedas a particular friend. During the perusal of the letter, he manifestedmuch surprise and indignation, and, raising his eyes, fixed them on Lucyand her mother with an expression of pity and interest. When he hadfinished reading, he remained for a moment thoughtful, and thenexclaimed, "There is no one but the signora; if the signora would takeupon herself this obligation----" and then addressing them, "Myfriends," said he, "I will make the effort, and I hope to find you ashelter, more than secure, more than honourable; so that God hasprovided for you in the best manner. Will you come with me?"

The females bowed reverently in assent; the friar continued, "Come withme, then, to the monastery of the signora. But keep yourselves a fewsteps distant, because there are people who delight to speak evil ofothers, and God knows how many fine stories might be told, if thesuperior of the convent was seen walking with a beautiful young

woman--with women, I mean."

So saying, he went on before: Lucy blushed; the guide looked at Agnes,who could not conceal a momentary smile; and they all three obeyed thecommand of the friar, and followed him at a distance. "Who is thesignora?" said Agnes, addressing their conductor.

"The signora," replied he, "is not a nun; that is, not a nun like theothers. She is not the abbess, nor the prioress; for they say that _she_is one of the youngest of them; but she is from Adam's rib, and herancestors were great people, who came from Spain; and they call her the_signora_, to signify that she is a great lady,--every one calls her so,because they say that in this monastery they have never had so noble aperson; and her relations down at Milan are very powerful, and in Monzastill more so; because her father is the first lord in the country; forwhich reason she can do as she pleases in the convent,--and moreoverpeople abroad bear her a great respect, and if she undertakes a thing,she makes it succeed; and if this good father induces her to take youunder her protection, you will be as safe as at the foot of the altar."

When the superior arrived at the gate of the town, which was defended atthat time by an old tower, and part of a dismantled castle, he stoppedand looked back to see if they followed him--then advanced towards themonastery, and, remaining on the threshold, awaited their approach. Theguide then took his leave, not without many thanks from Agnes and herdaughter for his kindness and faithfulness. The superior led them to theportress's chamber, and went alone to make the request of the signora.After a few moments he re-appeared, and with a joyful countenance toldthem that she would grant them an interview: on their way, he gave themmuch advice concerning their deportment in her presence. "She is welldisposed towards you," said he, "and has the power to protect you. Behumble, and respectful; reply with frankness to the questions she willask you, and when not questioned, be silent."

They passed through a lower chamber, and advanced towards the parlour.Lucy, who had never been in a monastery before, looked around as sheentered it for the signora; but there was no one there; in a fewmoments, however, she observed the friar approach a small window orgrating, behind which she beheld a nun standing. She appeared abouttwenty-five years of age; her countenance at first sight produced animpression of beauty, but of beauty prematurely faded. A black veil hungin folds on either side of her face; below the veil a band of whitelinen encircled a forehead of different, but not inferior whiteness;another plaited band encompassed the face, and terminated under the chinin a neck handkerchief, or cape, which, extending over the shoulders,covered to the waist the folds of her black robe. But her forehead wascontracted from time to time, as if by some painful emotion; now, herlarge black eye was fixed steadfastly on your face with an expression ofhaughty curiosity, then hastily bent down as if to discover some hiddenthought; in certain moments an attentive observer would have deemed thatthey solicited affection, sympathy, and pity; at others, he would havereceived a transient revelation of hatred, matured by a crueldisposition; when motionless and inattentive, some would have imaginedthem to express haughty aversion, others would have suspected thelabouring of concealed thought, the effort to overcome some secretfeeling of her soul, which had more power over it than all surroundingobjects. Her cheeks were delicately formed, but extremely pale and thin;

her lips, hardly suffused with a feeble tinge of the rose, seemed tosoften into the pallid hue of the cheeks; their movements, like those ofher eyes, were sudden, animated, and full of expression and mystery. Herloftiness of stature was not apparent, owing to an habitual stoop; aswell as to her rapid and irregular movements, little becoming a nun, oreven a lady. In her dress itself there was an appearance of studiedneglect, which announced a singular character; and from the band aroundher temples was suffered to escape, through forgetfulness or contempt ofthe rules which prohibited it, a curl of glossy black hair.

These things made no impression on the minds of Agnes and Lucy,unaccustomed as they were to the sight of a nun; and to the superior itwas no novelty--he, as well as many others, had become familiarised toher habit and manners.

She was, as we have said, standing near the grate, against which sheleaned languidly, to observe those who were approaching. "Reverendmother, and most illustrious lady," said the superior, bending low,"this is the poor young woman for whom I have solicited your protection,and this is her mother."

Both mother and daughter bowed reverently. "It is fortunate that I haveit in my power," said she, turning to the father, "to do some littleservice to our good friends the capuchin fathers. But tell me a littlemore particularly, the situation of this young woman, that I may bebetter prepared to act for her advantage."

Lucy blushed, and held down her head. "You must know, reverend mother,"said Agnes--but the father interrupted her;--"This young person, mostillustrious lady," continued he, "has been recommended to me, as I havetold you, by one of my brethren. She has been obliged to depart secretlyfrom her native place, in order to escape heavy perils; and she has needfor some time of an asylum, where she can remain unknown, and where noone will dare to molest her."

"What perils?" demanded the lady. "Pray, father, do not talk soenigmatically: you know, we nuns like to hear stories minutely."

"They are perils," replied the father, "that should not be told to thepure ears of the reverend mother."--"Oh, certainly," said the lady,hastily, and slightly blushing. Was this the blush of modesty? He wouldhave doubted it, who should have observed the rapid expression ofdisdain which accompanied it, or have compared it with that which fromtime to time diffused itself over the cheek of Lucy.

"It is sufficient to say," resumed the friar, "that a powerful lord--itis not all the rich and noble who make use of the gifts of God for thepromotion of his glory, as you do, most illustrious lady--a powerfullord, after having persecuted for a long time this innocent creaturewith wicked allurements, finding them unavailing, has had recourse toopen force, so that she has been obliged to fly from her home."

"Approach, young woman," said the signora. "I know that the father istruth itself; but no one can be better informed than you with regard tothis affair. To you it belongs to tell us if this lord was an odiouspersecutor." Lucy obeyed the first command, and approached the grating;but the second, accompanied as it was with a certain malicious air of

doubt, brought a blush over her countenance, and a sense of painfulembarrassment, which she found it impossible to overcome."Lady----mother----reverend----" stammered she. Agnes now felt herselfauthorised to come to her assistance. "Most illustrious lady," said she,"I can bear testimony that my daughter hates this lord as the devilhates holy water. I would call him the devil, were it not for yourreverend presence. The case is this: this poor maiden was promised to agood and industrious youth; and if the curate had done his duty----"

"You are very ready to speak without being interrogated," interruptedthe lady, with an expression of anger on her countenance, which changedit almost to deformity. "Silence; I have not to be informed that parentshave always an answer prepared in the name of their children."

Agnes drew back mortified, and the father guardian signified to Lucy bya look, as well as by a movement of the head, that now was the time torouse her courage, and not leave her poor mother in the dilemma."Reverend lady," said she, "what my mother has told you is the truth. Iwillingly engaged myself to the poor youth (and here she became coveredwith blushes)---- Pardon me this boldness; but I would not have youthink ill of my mother. And as to this lord (God forgive him!) I wouldrather die than fall into his hands. And if you do this deed of charity,be certain, signora, none will pray for you more heartily than thosewhom you have thus sheltered."

"I believe you," said the lady, with a softened voice; "but we will seeyou alone. Not that I need farther explanation, nor other motives toaccede to the wishes of the father superior," added she, turning to himwith studied politeness. "Nay," continued she, "I have been thinking,and this is what has occurred to me. The portress of the monastery hasbestowed in marriage, a few days since, her last daughter; these femalescan occupy her room, and supply her place in the little services whichit was her office to perform."

The father would have expressed his thanks, but the lady interruptedhim. "There is no need of ceremony; in case of need, I would nothesitate to ask assistance of the capuchin fathers. In short," continuedshe, with a smile, in which appeared a degree of bitter irony, "are wenot brothers and sisters?"

So saying, she called a nun, her attendant (by a singular distinctionshe had two assigned for her private service), and sent her to informthe abbess; she then called the portress, and made with her and Agnesthe necessary arrangements. Then taking leave of the superior, shedismissed Agnes to her room, but retained Lucy. The signora, who, inpresence of a capuchin, had studied her actions and her words, thoughtno longer of putting a restraint on them before an inexperienced countrygirl. Her discourse became by degrees so strange, that, in order toaccount for it, we will relate the previous history of this unhappy andmisguided person.

She was the youngest daughter of the Prince ***, a great Milanesenobleman, who was among the wealthiest of the city. The magnificentideas he entertained of his rank, made him suppose his wealth hardlysufficient to support it properly; he therefore determined to preservehis riches with the greatest care. How many children he had does notclearly appear; it is only known that he had destined to the cloister

all the youngest of both sexes, in order to preserve his fortune for theeldest son. The condition of the unhappy signora had been settled evenbefore her birth; it remained only to be decided whether she were to bea monk or a nun. At her birth, the prince her father, wishing to giveher a name which could recall at every moment the idea of a cloister,and which had been borne by a saint of a noble family, called herGertrude. Dolls, clothed like nuns, were the first toys that were putinto her hands; then pictures of nuns; and these gifts were accompaniedwith many injunctions to be careful of them, for they were preciousthings. When the prince or princess, or the young prince, who was theonly one of the children brought up at home, wished to praise the beautyof the infant, they found no way of expressing their ideas, except inexclamations of this sort, "What a mother abbess!" But no one ever saiddirectly to her, "Thou must be a nun;" such an intention, however, wasunderstood, and included in every conversation regarding her futuredestiny. If, sometimes, the little Gertrude betrayed perversity andimpetuosity of temper, they would say to her, "Thou art but a child, andthese manners are not becoming: wait till thou art the mother abbess,and then thou shalt command with a rod; thou shalt do whatever pleasesthee." At other times, reprehending her for the freedom and familiarityof her manners, the prince would say, "Such should not be the deportmentof one like you; if you wish at some future day to have the respect ofall around you, learn now to have more gravity; remember that you willbe the first in the monastery, because noble blood bears sway everywhere."

By such conversations as these the implicit idea was produced in themind of the child, that she was to be a nun. The manners of the princewere habitually austere and repulsive; and, with respect to thedestination of the child, his resolution appeared fixed as fate. At sixyears of age she was placed for her education in the monastery where wefind her: her father, being the most powerful noble in Monza, enjoyedthere great authority; and his daughter, consequently, would receivethose distinctions, with those allurements, which might lead her toselect it for her perpetual abode. The abbess and nuns, rejoicing at theacquisition of such powerful friendship, received with great gratitudethe honour conferred in preference on them, and entered with avidityinto the views of the prince; Gertrude experienced all sorts of favoursand indulgences, and, child as she was, the respectful attention of thenuns towards her was exercised with the same deference as if she hadbeen the abbess herself! Not that they were all pledged to draw the poorchild into the snare; many acted with simplicity, and throughtenderness, merely following the example of those around them; if thesuspicions of others were excited, they kept silence, so as not to causeuseless disturbance; some, indeed, more discriminating andcompassionate, pitied the poor child as being the object of artifices,to the like of which they themselves had been the victims.

Things would have proceeded agreeably to the wishes of all concerned,had Gertrude been the only child in the monastery; but this was not thecase; and there were some among her school companions who were destinedfor the matrimonial state. The little Gertrude, filled with the idea ofher superiority, spoke proudly of her future destiny, expecting therebyto excite their envy at her peculiar honours: with scorn and wonder sheperceived that their estimation of them was very different. To themajestic but circumscribed and cold images of the power of an abbess,they opposed the varied and bright pictures of husband, guests, cities,

tournaments, courts, dress, and equipage. New and strange emotions arosein the mind of Gertrude: her vanity had been cultivated in order to makethe cloister desirable to her; and now, easily assimilating itself withthe ideas thus presented, she entered into them with all the ardour ofher soul. She replied, that no one could oblige her to take the veil,without her own consent; that she could also marry, inhabit a palace,and enjoy the world; that she could if she wished it; that she _would_wish it, and _did_ wish it. The necessity of her own consent, hithertolittle considered, became henceforth the ruling thought of her mind; shecalled it to her aid, at all times, when she desired to luxuriate in thepleasing images of future felicity.

But her fancied enjoyment was impaired by the reflection, which at suchmoments intruded itself, that her father had irrevocably decided herdestiny; and she shuddered at the recollection of his austere manners,which impressed upon all around him the sentiments of a fatal necessityas being necessarily conjoined with whatever he should command. Thenwould she compare her condition to that of her more fortunatecompanions; and envy soon grew into hatred. This would manifest itselfby a display of present superiority, and sometimes of ill-nature,sarcasm, and spite; at other times her more amiable and gentle qualitieswould obtain a transitory ascendency. Thus she passed the periodallotted for her education, in dreams of future bliss, mingled with thedread of future misery. That which she anticipated most distinctly, wasexternal pomp and splendour; and her fancy would often luxuriate inimaginary scenes of grandeur, constructed out of such materials as hermemory could faintly and confusedly furnish forth, and the descriptionsof her companions supply. There were moments when these brilliantimaginings were disturbed by the idea of religion; but the religionwhich had been inculcated to the poor girl did not proscribe pride, but,on the contrary, sanctified it, and proposed it as a means of obtainingterrestrial felicity. Thus despoiled of its essence, it was no longerreligion, but a phantom, which, assuming at times a power over her mind,the unhappy girl was tormented with superstitious dread, and, filledwith a confused idea of duties, imagined her repugnance to the cloisterto be a crime, which could only be expiated by her voluntary dedication.

There was a law, that no young person could be accepted for the monasticlife, without being examined by an ecclesiastic, called the vicar of thenuns, so that it should be made manifest that it was the result of herfree election; and this examination could not take place until a yearafter she had presented her petition for admission, in writing, to thevicar. The nuns, therefore, who were aware of the projects of herfather, undertook to draw from her such a petition; encountering her inone of those moments, when she was assailed by her superstitious fears,they suggested to her the propriety of such a course, and assured her,nevertheless, that it was a mere formality (which was true), and wouldbe without efficacy, unless sanctioned by some after-act of her own. Thepetition, however, had scarcely been sent to its destination, whenGertrude repented of having written it; she then repented of thisrepentance, passing months in incessant vicissitude of feeling. Therewas another law, that, at this examination, a young person should not bereceived, without having remained at least a month at her paternal home.A year had nearly passed since the petition had been sent, and Gertrudehad been warned that she would soon be removed from the monastery, andconducted to her father's house, to take the final steps towards theconsummation of that which they held certain. Not so the poor girl; her

mind was busied with plans of escape: in her perplexity, she unbosomedherself to one of her companions, who counselled her to inform herfather by letter of the change in her views. The letter was written andsent; Gertrude remained in great anxiety, expecting a reply, which nevercame. A few days after, the abbess took her aside, and, with a mixedexpression of contempt and compassion, hinted to her the anger of theprince, and the error she had committed; but that, if she conductedherself well for the future, all would be forgotten. The poor girlheard, and dared not ask farther explanation.

The day, so ardently desired and so greatly feared, came at last. Theanticipation of the trials that awaited her was forgotten in hertumultuous joy at the sight of the open country, the city, and thehouses. She might well feel thus, after having been for eight yearsenclosed within the walls of the monastery! She had previously arrangedwith her new confidant the part she was to act. Oh! they will try toforce me, thought she: but I will persist, humbly and respectfully; thepoint is, not to say _Yes_; and I will _not_ say it. Or, perhaps theywill endeavour to shake my purpose by kindness: but I will weep, I willimplore, I will excite their compassion, I will beseech them not tosacrifice me. But none of her anticipations were verified: her parentsand family, with the usual artful policy in such cases, maintained aperfect silence with regard to the subject of her meditations; theyregarded her with looks of contemptuous pity, and appeared to avoid allconversation with her, as if she had rendered herself unworthy of it. Amysterious anathema appeared to hang over her, and to keep at a distanceevery member of the household. If, wearied with this proscription, sheendeavoured to enter into conversation, they made her understandindirectly, that by obedience alone could she regain the affections ofthe family. But this was precisely the condition to which she could notassent: she therefore continued in her state of excommunication, whichunhappily appeared to be, at least partially, the consequence of her ownconduct.

Such a state of things formed a sad contrast to the radiant visionswhich had occupied her imagination. Her confinement was as strict athome as it had been in the monastery; and she, who had fancied sheshould enjoy, at least for this brief period, the pleasures of theworld, found herself an exile from all society. At every announcement ofa visiter, she was compelled to retire with the elderly persons of thefamily; and always dined apart whenever a guest was present. Even theservants of the family appeared to concur with the designs of theirmaster, and to treat her with carelessness, ill concealed by an awkwardattempt at formality. There was one among them, however, who seemed tofeel towards her respect and compassion. This was a handsome page, whoequalled, in her imagination, the ideal images of loveliness she had sooften fondly cherished. There was soon apparent a change in her manner,a love of reverie and abstraction, and she no longer appeared to covetthe favour of her family; some engrossing thought had taken possessionof her mind. To be brief, she was detected one day in folding a letter,which it had been better she had not written, and which she was obligedto relinquish to her female attendant, who carried it to the prince, herfather. He came immediately to her apartment with the letter in hishand, and in few but terrible words told her, that for the present sheshould be confined to her chamber, with the society only of the womanwho had made the discovery; and intimated for the future still darkerpunishments. The page was dismissed, with an imperative command of

silence, and solemn threatenings of punishment should he presume toviolate it. Gertrude was then left alone, with her shame, her remorse,and her terror; and the sole company of this woman, whom she hated, asthe witness of her fault, and the cause of her disgrace. The hatred wascordially returned, inasmuch as the attendant found herself reduced tothe annoying duty of a jailer, and was made the guardian of a periloussecret for life. The first confused tumult of her feelings having insome measure subsided, she recalled to mind the dark intimations of herfather with regard to some future punishment: what could this be? Itmost probably was a return to the monastery at Monza, not as thesignorina, but as a guilty wretch, who, loaded with shame, was to beinclosed within its walls for ever! Now, indeed, her fancy no longerdwelt on the bright visions with which it had been so often busied; theywere too much opposed to the sad reality of her present condition. Suchan act would repair all her errors, and change (could she doubt it) inan instant her condition. The only castle in which Gertrude couldimagine a tranquil and honourable asylum, and which was not in the_air_, was the monastery, in which she now resolved to place herself forever! Opposed to this resolution rose up the contemplations of manyyears past: but times were changed, and to the depth in which Gertrudehad fallen, the condition of a nun, revered, obeyed, and feared, formeda bright contrast. She was perpetually tormented also by her jailer,who, to revenge herself for the confinement imposed on her, failed notto taunt her for her misdemeanor, and to repeat the menaces of herfather; or whenever she seemed disposed to relent, and to show somethinglike pity, her tone of protection was still more intolerable. Thepredominant desire of Gertrude was to escape from her clutches, and toraise herself to a condition above her anger or her pity. At the end offour or five long days, with her patience exhausted by the bitterrailings of her keeper, she sat herself down in a corner of the chamber,and covering her face with her hands, wept in bitterness of soul. Sheexperienced an absolute craving for other faces and other sounds thanthose of her tormentor; and a sudden joy imparted itself to her mind,from the reflection, that it depended only on herself to be restored tothe good-will and attentions of the family. Mingled with this joy, camerepentance for her fault, and a desire to expiate it. She arose, went toa small table, and taking a pen, wrote to her father, expressing herpenitence and her hope, imploring his pardon, and promising to do allthat might be required of her.

CHAPTER X.

There are moments in which the mind, particularly of the young, is sodisposed, that a little importunity suffices to obtain from it any thingthat has the appearance of virtuous sacrifice; as a flower scarcelybudded abandons itself on its fragile stem, ready to yield its sweets tothe first breeze which plays around it. These moments, which ought to beregarded by others with timid respect, are exactly those of whichinterested cunning makes use, to insnare the unguarded will.

On the perusal of this letter, the prince saw the way opened to thefurtherance of his views. He sent for Gertrude; she obeyed the command,and, in his presence, threw herself at his feet, and had scarcely power

to exclaim, "Pardon!" He made a sign to her to rise, and in a gravevoice answered, that it was not enough merely to confess her fault, andask forgiveness, but that it was necessary to merit it. Gertrude askedsubmissively, "what he would have her do?" To this the prince did notreply directly, but spoke at length of the fault of Gertrude: the poorgirl shuddered as at the touch of a hand on a severe wound. Hecontinued, that even if he had entertained the project of settling herin the world, she had herself placed an insuperable obstacle to it;since he could never, as a gentleman of honour, permit her to marry,after having given such a specimen of herself. The miserable listenerwas completely humbled!

The prince, then, by degrees softened his voice and manner to say, thatfor all faults there was a remedy, and that the remedy for hers wasclearly indicated; that she might perceive, in this fatal accident, awarning that the world was too full of dangers for her----

"Oh, yes!" exclaimed Gertrude, overwhelmed with shame and remorse.

"Ah, you perceive it yourself!" resumed the prince. "Well, we willspeak no more of the past; all is forgotten. You have taken the onlyhonourable way that remains for you; and because you _have_ taken itvoluntarily, it rests with me to make it turn to your advantage, and tomake the merit of the sacrifice all your own." So saying, he rang thebell, and said to the servant who appeared, "The princess and the princeimmediately." He continued to Gertrude, "I wish to make them the sharersof my joy; I wish that they should begin at once to treat you as youdeserve. You have hitherto found me a severe judge; you shall now provethat I am a loving father."

At these words Gertrude remained stupified; she thought of the "yes" shehad so precipitately suffered to escape from her lips, and would haverecalled it; but she did not dare; the satisfaction of the princeappeared so entire, his condescension so conditional, that she could notpresume to utter a word to disturb it.

The princess and prince came into the room. On seeing Gertrude there,they appeared full of doubt and surprise; but the prince, with a joyfulcountenance, said to them, "Behold here the lost sheep! and let these bethe last words that shall recall painful recollections. Behold theconsolation of the family! Gertrude has no longer need of advice; shehas voluntarily chosen her own good. She has resolved, she has signifiedto me that she has resolved----" She raised to him a look ofsupplication, but he continued more plainly, "that she has resolved totake the veil."

"Well done, well done," exclaimed they both, overwhelming her withembraces, which Gertrude received with tears, which they chose tointerpret as tears of joy. Then the prince enlarged on the splendiddestiny of his daughter, on the distinction she would enjoy in themonastery and in the country, as the representative of the family. Hermother and her brother renewed their congratulations and praises.Gertrude stood as if possessed by a dream.

It was then necessary to fix the day for the journey to Monza, for thepurpose of making the request of the abbess. "How rejoiced she will be!"said the prince; "I am sure all the nuns will appreciate the honour

Gertrude does them. But why not go there to-day? Gertrude willwillingly take the air."

"Let us go, then," said the princess.

"I will order the carriage," said the young prince.

"But----" said Gertrude submissively.

"Softly, softly," said the prince, "let her decide; perhaps she does notfeel disposed to go to-day, and would rather wait until to-morrow. Say,do you wish to go to-day or to-morrow?"

"To-morrow," said Gertrude, in a feeble voice, glad of a short reprieve.

"To-morrow," said the prince, solemnly; "she has decided to goto-morrow. Meanwhile I will see the vicar of the nuns, to have him toappoint a day for the examination." He did so, and the vicar named theday after the next. In the interval Gertrude was not left a moment toherself. She would have desired some repose for her mind after so manycontending emotions; to have reflected on the step she had alreadytaken, and what remained to be done--but the machine once in motion ather direction, it was no longer in her power to arrest its progress;occupations succeeded each other without interruption. The princessherself assisted at her toilette, which was completed by her own maid.This effected, dinner was announced, and poor Gertrude was made to passthrough the crowd of servants, who nodded their congratulations to eachother. She found at the table a few relations of the family, who hadbeen invited in haste to participate in the general joy. The youngbride--thus they called young persons about to enter the monasticlife--the young bride had enough to do to reply to the compliments whichwere paid to her; she felt that each reply was a confirmation of herdestiny; but how act differently? After dinner came the hour of riding,and Gertrude was placed in a carriage with her mother and two uncles,who had been among the guests. They entered the street Marina, whichthen crossed the space now occupied by the public gardens, and was thepublic promenade, where the nobility refreshed themselves after thefatigues of the day. The uncles conversed much with Gertrude, and one ofthem in particular, who appeared to know every body, every carriage,and every livery, had something to tell of signor such an one, andsignora such an one; but checking himself, he said to his niece, "Ah!you little rogue! you turn your back upon all these follies; you are therighteous person; you leave us worldlings far behind; you are going tolead a happy life, and take yourself to paradise in a coach."

They returned home in the dusk of the evening, and the servants,appearing with torches, announced to them that numerous visiters hadarrived. The report had spread, and a multitude of relations and friendshad come to offer their congratulations. The young bride was the idol,the amusement, the victim of the evening. Finally, Gertrude was leftalone with the family. "At last," said the prince, "I have had theconsolation of seeing my daughter in society becoming her rank andstation. She has conducted herself admirably, and has evinced that therewill be no preventive to her obtaining the highest honours, andsupporting the dignity of the family." They supped hastily, so as to beready early in the morning.

At the request of Gertrude, her attendant, of whose insolence shebitterly complained to her father, was removed, and another placed inher stead. This was an old woman, who had been nurse to the youngprince, in whom was centred all her hopes and her pride. She wasoverjoyed at the decision of Gertrude, who, as a climax to her trials,was obliged to listen to her congratulations and praises. She talked ofher numerous aunts and relatives, who were so happy as nuns; of the manyvisits she would doubtless receive. She further spoke of the youngprince, and the lady who was to be his wife, and the visit which theywould doubtless pay to Gertrude at the monastery, until, wearied outwith the conflicts of the day, the poor girl fell asleep. She wasaroused in the morning by the harsh voice of the old woman, "Up, up,signora, young bride! it is day; the princess is up, and waiting foryou. The young prince is impatient. He is as brisk as a hare, the youngdevil; he was so from an infant. But when he is ready, you must not makehim wait; he is the best temper in the world, but that always makes himimpatient and noisy. Poor fellow, we must pity him, it is the effect oftemperament; in such moments he has respect to no one but the head ofthe household; however, one day he will be the head; may that day be faroff! Quick, quick, signorina! You should have been out of your nestbefore this."

The idea of the young prince, risen and impatient, recalled thescattered thoughts of Gertrude, and hastily she suffered herself to bedressed, and descended to the saloon, where her parents and brother wereassembled. A cup of chocolate was brought her, and the carriage wasannounced. Before their departure, the prince took his daughter aside,and said to her, "Courage, Gertrude; yesterday you did well, to-day youmust excel yourself; the point is now to make a suitable appearance inthe country and in the monastery, where you are destined to hold thefirst station. They expect you, and all eyes will be on you. Dignity andease. The abbess will ask you what is your request; it is a mere form,but you must reply that you wish to be admitted to take the veil in thismonastery, where you have been educated, and treated so kindly; which isthe truth. Speak these words with a free unembarrassed air, so as not togive occasion for scandal. These good mothers know nothing of theunhappy occurrence; that must remain buried with the family. However, ananxious countenance might excite suspicion; show whose is the blood inyour veins; be polite and modest; but remember also, that in thiscountry, out of the family, there is none your superior."

During their ride, the troubles and the trials of the world, and theblessed life of the cloister, were the principal subjects ofconversation. As they approached the monastery, the crowd collected fromall parts; as the carriage stopped before the walls, the heart ofGertrude beat more rapidly: they alighted amidst the concourse; all eyeswere fastened on her, and compelled her to study the movements of hercountenance; and, above all, those of her father, upon whom she couldnot help fixing her regards, notwithstanding the fear he inspired. Theycrossed the first court, entered the second, and here appeared theinterior cloister, wide open, and occupied by nuns. In front was theabbess, surrounded by the most aged of the sisterhood; behind these theothers, raised promiscuously on tiptoe, and farther back the laysisters, standing on benches and overlooking the scene; whilst here andthere were seen, peeping between the cowls, some youthful faces, whichGertrude recognised as those of her school companions. As she stoodfronting the abbess, the latter demanded, with grave solemnity, "What

she desired to have in this place, where nothing could be denied her?"

"I am here," began Gertrude; but, about to utter the words which were todecide her destiny irrevocably, she felt her heart fail, and hesitating,she fixed her eyes on the crowd before her. She beheld there thewell-known face of one of her companions, who regarded her with looks ofcompassion and malice, as if to say, "They have caught the brave one."This sight required all her courage, and she was about to give a replyvery different from that which was expected from her, when, glancing ather father, she caught from his eye such an anxious and threateningexpression, that, overcome by terror, she proceeded, "I am here to askadmittance into this monastery, where I have been instructed so kindly."The abbess immediately expressed her regret, that the regulations weresuch as to prohibit an immediate answer, which must be given by thecommon suffrage of the sisterhood; but that Gertrude knew well thesentiments they entertained towards her; and might judge what thatanswer would be. In the mean time nothing prevented them frommanifesting their joy at her request. There was then heard a confusedmurmur of congratulations and rejoicing.

Whilst the nuns were surrounding their new companion, and offering theircongratulations to all the party, the abbess expressed her wish toaddress a few words to the prince at the parlour grating.

"Signor," said she, "in obedience to our rules--to fulfil a necessaryform--I must inform you--that whenever a young person desires toassume--the superior, which I am, though unworthily, is obliged to makeknown to the parents that if--they have forced the will of theirdaughter, they will incur the pains of excommunication. You willexcuse----"

"Oh! yes, yes, reverend mother. Your exactitude is very praiseworthy,very just. But you cannot doubt----"

"Oh! imagine, prince, if--but I merely speak by order; besides----"

"True--true, reverend mother."

After these few words, and a renewal of compliments and thanks, theydeparted.

Gertrude was silent during their ride; overcome and occupied byconflicting thoughts, ashamed of her own want of resolution, vexed withothers as well as herself, she was still meditating some way of escape,but every time she looked at her father, she felt her destiny to beirrevocable. After the various engagements of the day were over,--thedinner, the visits, the drive, the _conversazione_, the supper,--theprince brought another subject under discussion, which was the choice ofa godmother (so they called the lady who is selected as chaperone to theyoung candidate in the interval between the request for admission, andthe putting on of the habit); the duty of this person was to visit, withher charge, the churches, public palaces, the _conversazioni_, in short,every thing of note in the city and its environs; so as to afford a peepat that world they were about to quit for ever. "We must think of agodmother," said the prince, "because to-morrow the vicar of the nunswill be here for the examination, and soon after that, Gertrude will befinally accepted. Now the choice shall come from Gertrude herself,

although contrary to usage; but she deserves to be made an exception,and we may confidently trust to her judgment in the selection." Andthen, turning to her, as if bestowing a singular favour, he continued,"Any one of the ladies who were at the _conversazione_ this evening,possesses the necessary qualifications for a godmother; any one of themwill consider it an honour; make your selection." Gertrude instantlyfelt that the choice would be a renewal of consent; but the proposal wasmade with such an air of condescension, that a refusal would haveappeared to spring from contempt or ingratitude. Thus she took anotherstep, and named a lady who had been forward in attentions to her duringthe whole evening. "A perfectly wise choice," said the prince, who hadexpected no less. The affair had all been previously arranged; this ladyhad been so much with Gertrude at the _conversazione_, and had displayedsuch kindness of manner, that it would have been an effort for her tothink of another. The attentions, however, of this lady were not withouttheir object: she had also for a long time contemplated making the youngprince her son; she, therefore, naturally interested herself in all thatconcerned the family, and felt the deepest interest in her dearGertrude.

On the morrow, the imagination of Gertrude was occupied with theexpected examination, and with a vague hope of some opportunity toretract. At an early hour she was sent for by the prince, who addressedher in these words:--"Courage, my daughter; you have as yet conductedyourself admirably; to-day you must crown the work. All that has beendone, has been done with your consent. If, in the meanwhile, you had anydoubts, any misgivings, you should have expressed them; but at the pointto which things have now arrived, it will no longer do to play thechild. The worthy man who is to come this morning, will put a hundredquestions to you, concerning your vocation; such as, whether you govoluntarily, and the why and the wherefore. If you falter in yourreplies, he will continue to urge you; this will produce pain toyourself, but might become the source of a more serious evil. After allthe public demonstrations that we have made, the slightest hesitation onyour part might place my honour in danger, by conveying the idea that Ihad taken a mere youthful whim for a confirmed resolution, and that Ihad thus acted precipitately; in this case, I should feel myself underthe necessity, in order to preserve my character inviolate, to revealthe true motive----" But, seeing the countenance of Gertrude all onflame, and contracting itself like the leaves of a flower in the heatwhich precedes a tempest, he stopped a moment, and then resumed, "Well,well, all depends on yourself. I know you will not show yourself achild; but recollect, you must reply with freedom, so as not to createsuspicion in the mind of this worthy man." He then suggested theanswers to be made to the probable questions that would be put, andconcluded with various remarks upon the happiness that awaited Gertrudeat the convent. At this moment the servant announced the arrival of thevicar, and the prince was obliged to leave his daughter alone to receivehim.

The good man had come with a preconceived opinion that Gertrude wentvoluntarily to the cloister, because the prince had told him so. It wasone of his maxims, however, to preserve himself unprejudiced, and todepend only on the assertions of the candidates themselves. "Signorina,"said he, "I come to play the part of the tempter; I come to suggestdoubts where you have affirmed certainties; I come to place before youreyes difficulties, and ascertain if you have well considered them. You

will allow me to trouble you with some interrogatories?"

"Say on," replied Gertrude.

The good priest then began to interrogate her in the form prescribed."Do you feel in your heart a free spontaneous resolution to become anun? Have menaces, or allurements, or authority been made use of? Speakwithout reserve to one whose duty it is to ascertain the true state ofyour feelings, and to prevent violence being done to them."

The true reply to such a question presented itself suddenly to the mindof Gertrude, with terrible reality. But to come to an explanation, tosay she was threatened, to relate the unfortunate story--from this herspirit shrank, and she brought herself to the resolution of saying, "Ibecome a nun, freely, from inclination."

"How long have you had this intention?" asked the good priest.

"I have always had it," said Gertrude, finding it easier after the firststep to proceed in falsehood.

"But what is the principal motive which has induced you?"

The interrogator was not aware of the chord he touched; and Gertrude,making a great effort to preserve the tranquillity of her countenance,amid the tumult of her soul, replied. "The motive is, to serve God, andto fly the perils of the world."

"Has there never been any disgust? any--excuse me--caprice? Oftentrifling causes make impressions which we deem will be perpetual, butthe causes cease----"

"No, no," replied Gertrude, hastily; "the cause is that which I havesaid."

The vicar, in order to execute his duty fully, persisted in hisenquiries, but Gertrude was determined to deceive him. She could not fora moment think of rendering the good man acquainted with her weakness;she knew, indeed, that he could prevent her being a nun, but that thiswould be the extent of his authority and his protection. When he shouldbe gone, she would still be left alone, to endure fresh trials from herfather and the family. Finding, therefore, a uniform answer to all hisquestions, he became somewhat wearied of putting them, and, concludingthat all was as it should be, with many prayers for her welfare, he tookhis leave. As he crossed the hall he met the prince, and congratulatedhim on the good dispositions of his daughter. This put an end to a verypainful state of suspense and anxiety on the part of the prince; who,forgetting his usual gravity, ran to his daughter, and loaded her withpraises, caresses, and promises, and with a tenderness of affection ingreat measure sincere: such is the inconsistency of the human heart.

Then ensued a round of spectacles and diversions, during which we cannotattempt to describe minutely or in order the emotions to which the heartof Gertrude was subjected. The perpetual change of objects, the freedomenjoyed by this change, rendered more odious to her the idea of herprison; still more pungent were the impressions she received in thefestivals and assemblies of the city. The pomp of the palaces, the

splendour of their furniture, the buzzing and festal clamour of the_conversazione_, communicated to her such an intoxication, such an eagerdesire for happiness, that she thought she could encounter all theconsequences of a recantation, or even suffer death, rather than returnto the cold shades of the cloister. But all such resolutions instantlyfled as her eyes rested on the austere countenance of the prince.

Meanwhile, the vicar of the nuns had made the necessary deposition, andliberty was given to hold a chapter for the acceptation of Gertrude. Thechapter was held, and she was received! Wearied out with her longconflicts, she requested immediate admittance, which was readilygranted. After a noviciate of twelve days, full of resolves andcounter-resolves, the moment arrived when she finally pronounced thefatal "yes," which was to exclude her from the world for ever. But evenin the depths of the monastery she found no repose; she had not thewisdom to make a virtue of necessity, but was continually and uselesslyrecurring to the past. She could not call religion to her aid, forreligion had no share in the sacrifice she had made; and heavily andbitterly she bore the yoke of bondage. She hated the nuns, because sheremembered their artifices, and regarded them in some measure as theauthors of her misfortune; she tyrannised over them with impunity,because they dared not rebel against her authority, and incur theresentment of the powerful lord, her father. Those nuns who were reallypious and harmless, she hated for their piety itself, as it seemed tocast a tacit reproach on her weakness; and she suffered no occasion toescape without railing at them as bigots and hypocrites. It might,however, have mitigated her asperity towards them, had she known thatthe black balls to oppose her entrance had been cast into the urn bytheir sympathetic generosity. She found, however, one consolation, inthe unlimited power she possessed, in being courted and flattered, andin hearing herself called the "signora." But what a consolation! Hersoul felt its insufficiency, but had not the courage nor the virtue toseek happiness from the only source where it could be found. Thus shelived many years, tyrannising over and feared by all around her, till anoccasion presented itself for a further developement of her habitual,but secret feelings. Among other privileges which had been accorded toher in the monastery, was that of having her apartments on a side of thebuilding little frequented by the other nuns. Opposite to this quarterof the convent was a house, inhabited by a young man, a villain byprofession, one of those who, at this period, by their mutualcombinations were enabled to set at nought the public laws. His name wasEgidio. From his small window, which overlooked the court-yard, he hadoften seen Gertrude wandering there from listlessness and melancholy.Allured rather than intimidated by the danger and iniquity of the act,he dared one day to speak to her. The wretched girl replied!

Then was experienced a new but not unmixed satisfaction; into thepainful void of her soul was infused a powerful stimulus, a freshprinciple of vitality: but this enjoyment resembled the restoringbeverage which the ingenious cruelty of the ancients presented to thecriminal, in order to strengthen him to sustain his martyrdom. A changecame also over her whole deportment; she was regular, tranquil,endearing, and affable; in such a degree, that the sisters congratulatedthemselves upon the circumstance, little imagining the true motive, andthat the alteration was none other than hypocrisy added to her otherdefects. This outward improvement, however, did not last long; she soonreturned to her customary caprices, and, moreover, was heard to utter

bitter imprecations against the cloistral prison, in unusual andunbecoming language. The sisters bore these vicissitudes as well as theycould, and attributed them to the light and capricious nature of thesignora. For some time it did not appear that the suspicions of any oneof them were excited; but one day the signora had been speaking with oneof the sisters, her attendant, and reviling her beyond measure for sometrifling matter: the sister suffered a while, and gnawed the bit insilence; but finally, becoming impatient, declared that she was mistressof a secret, and could advise the signora in her turn. From this timeforward her peace was lost. Not many days after, however, this verysister was missing from her accustomed offices; they sought her in hercell, and did not find her; they called, and she answered not; theysearched diligently in every place, but without success. And who knowswhat conjectures might have arisen, if there had not been found a greatopening in the wall of the orchard, through which she had probably madeher escape. They sent messengers in various directions to pursue, andrestore her, but they never heard of her more! Perhaps they would nothave been so unfortunate in their search, if they had dug near thegarden wall! Finally, the nuns concluded that she must have gone to agreat distance, and because one of them happened to say, she has takenrefuge in Holland, "O yes," said they, "she has, without doubt, takenrefuge in Holland." The signora did not believe this, but she hadcertain reasons for encouraging the opinion, and this she did not failto do. Thus the minds of the nuns became satisfied; but who can tell thetorments of the signora's soul? Who can tell how many times a day theimage of this sister came unbidden into her mind, and fastened itselfthere with terrible tenacity? Who can tell how many times she desired tobehold the real and living person, for the company of this empty,impassible, terrible shade? Who can tell with what delight she wouldhave heard the very words of the threat repeated in her mental ear,rather than this continual and fantastic murmur of those very words,sounding with a pertinacity of which no living voice could have beencapable.

It was about a year after this event, that we find Lucy at themonastery, and under the protection of the signora. The reader mayremember, that after Agnes and the portress had left the room, thesignora and Lucy had entered into conversation alone; the formercontinued her questions concerning Don Roderick, with a fearlessnesswhich filled the mind of Lucy with astonishment, little supposing thatthe curiosity of the nuns ever exercised itself upon such subjects. Theopinions which were blended with these enquiries, were not less strange;she laughed at the dread which Lucy expressed herself to have of DonRoderick, asking her if he was not handsome; and surmising that Lucywould have liked him very well, if it had not been for her preference ofRenzo. When again with her mother, the poor girl expressed herastonishment at such observations from such a source, but Agnes, as moreexperienced, solved the mystery. "Do not be surprised," said she; "whenyou have known the world as I have, you will cease to wonder at anything. The nobility, some more, some less, some one way, some another,have all a little oddity. We must let them talk, especially when we haveneed of them; we must appear to listen to them seriously, as if theywere talking very wisely. Did you not hear how she interrupted me, as ifI had uttered some absurdity? I did not wonder at it; they are all so.Notwithstanding that, Heaven be thanked, she seems to have taken aliking to you, and is willing to protect us; and if we would retain herfavour, we must let her say that which it shall please her to say."

A desire to oblige the superior, the complacency experienced inprotecting, the thought of the good opinions which would be the resultof a protection thus piously extended, a certain inclination towardsLucy, and also a degree of self-satisfaction in doing good to aninnocent creature, in succouring and consoling the oppressed, had reallydisposed the signora to take to heart the fate of our poor fugitives.The mother and daughter congratulated themselves on their safe andhonourable asylum. They would have wished to remain unknown to all; butthis, in a convent, was impossible; and one there was, besides, too farinterested in obtaining an account of one of the two, stimulated as hispassion had been by the opposition he had encountered. We will leavethem for the present in their safe retreat, and return to the palace ofDon Roderick, at the hour in which he was anxiously expecting the resultof his wicked and villanous enterprise.

CHAPTER XI.

As a pack of blood-hounds, after having in vain tracked the hare, returndesponding towards their master, with their ears down, and tailshanging, so, in this night of confusion, returned the bravoes to thepalace of Don Roderick, who was pacing, in the dark, the floor of anupper uninhabited chamber. Full of impatience and uncertainty as to theissue of the expedition, and not without anxiety for the possibleconsequences, his ear was attentive to every sound, and his eye to everymovement on the esplanade. This was the most daring piece of villany hehad ever undertaken; but he felt that the precautions he had used wouldpreserve him from suspicion. "And who will dare to come here, and ask ifshe is not in this palace? Should this young fellow do so, he will bewell received, I promise him. Let the friar come! yea, let him come. Ifthe old woman presumes so far, she shall be sent to Bergamo. As for thelaw, I do fear it not; the _podestà_ is neither a boy nor a fool! Pshaw!there's nothing to fear. How will Attilio be surprised to-morrowmorning; he will find I am not a mere boaster. But if any difficultyshould arise, he'll assist--the honour of all my relatives will bepledged." But these anxious thoughts subsided as he reverted toLucy.--"She will be frightened to find herself alone, surrounded only bythese rough visages: by Bacchus, the most human face here is my own, andshe will be obliged to have recourse to me--to entreaty." In the midstof these calculations he heard a trampling of feet, approached thewindow, and looking out exclaimed, "It is they! But the litter! thedevil! where is the litter? Three, five, eight, they are all there; butwhere is the litter? The devil! Griso shall render me an account ofthis." He then advanced to the head of the stairs to meet Griso. "Well,"cried he, "Signor Bully, Signor Captain, Signor 'Leave it to me!'"

"It is hard," said Griso,--"it is hard to meet with reproach, when onehas hazarded one's life to perform his duty."

"How has it happened? Let us hear, let us hear," said he, as he advancedtowards the room, followed by Griso, who related, as clearly as hecould, the occurrences of the night.

"Thou hast done well," said Don Roderick; "thou hast done all that thoucouldst--but to think that this roof harbours a spy! If I discover himI will settle matters for him; and I tell thee, Griso, I suspect theinformation was given the day of the dinner."

"I have had the same suspicion," said Griso; "and if my master discoversthe scoundrel, he has only to trust him to me. He has made me pass atroublesome night, and I wish to pay him for it. But there must be, Ithink, some other cause, which we cannot at present fathom; to-morrow,Signor, to-morrow we will see clear water."

"Have you been recognised by any one?"

Griso thought not; and after having given him many orders for themorrow, and wishing to make amends for the impetuosity with which he hadat first greeted him, Don Roderick said, "Go to rest, poor Griso! youmust indeed require it. Labouring all day, and half the night, and thento be received in this manner! Go to rest now; for we may yet be obligedto put your friendship to a severer test. Good night."

The next morning Don Roderick sought the Count Attilio, who, receivinghim with a laugh, said, "San Martin!"

"I will pay the wager," said Don Roderick. "I thought indeed to havesurprised you this morning, and therefore have kept from you somecircumstances. I will now tell you all."

"The friar's hand is in this business," said his cousin, after havingheard him through: "this friar, with his playing at bo-peep, and givingadvice; I know him for a busybody and a rascal! And you did not confidein me, and tell me what brought him here the other day to trifle withyou. If I had been in your place he should not have gone out as he camein, of that be assured."

"What! would you wish me to incur the resentment of all the capuchins inItaly?"

"In such a moment," said the count, "I should have forgotten there wasany other capuchin in the world than this daring rascal; but the meansare not wanting, within the pale of prudence, to take satisfaction evenof a capuchin. It is well for him that he has escaped the punishmentbest suited to him; but I take him henceforth under my protection, andwill teach him how to speak to his superiors."

"Do not make matters worse."

"Trust me for once; I will serve you as a relation and a friend."

"What do you mean to do?"

"I don't know yet; but I will certainly pay the friar. Let me see--thecount my uncle, who is one of the secret council, will do the service;dear uncle! How pleased I am when I can make him work for me, apolitician of his stamp! The day after to-morrow I will be at Milan, andin some way or other the friar shall have his due."

Meanwhile breakfast was brought in, which however did not interrupt the

important discussion. Count Attilio interested himself in the cause fromhis friendship for his cousin, and the honour of the name, according tohis notions of friendship and honour; yet he could hardly help laughingevery now and then at the ridiculous issue of the adventure. But DonRoderick, who had calculated upon making a master-stroke, was vexed athis signal failure, and agitated by various passions. "Fine stories willbe circulated," said he, "of last night's affair, but no matter; as tojustice, I defy it: it does not exist; and if it did, I should equallydefy it. Apropos, I have sent word this morning to the constable, tomake no deposition respecting the affair, and he will be sure to followmy advice; but tattling always annoys me,--it is enough that _you_ haveit in your power to laugh at me."

"It is well you have given the constable his message," said the count;"this great empty-headed, obstinate proser of a _podestà_ is however aman who knows his duty, and we must be careful not to place him indifficulty. If a fellow of a constable makes a deposition, the_podestà_, however well intentioned, is obliged to----"

"But you," interrupted Don Roderick, with a little warmth,--"you spoilmy affairs, by contradicting him, and laughing at him on every occasion.Why the devil can't you suffer a magistrate to be an obstinate beast,while in other things that suit our convenience he is an honest man?"

"Do you know, cousin," said the count, regarding him with an expressionof affected surprise, "do you know that I begin to think you capable offear? You take the _podestà_ and myself to be in earnest."

"Well, well, have not you yourself said that we should be careful?"

"Certainly; and when the question is serious, I will show you I am not aboy. Shall I tell you what I will do for you? I will go in person tomake the _podestà_ a visit; do you not think he will be pleased with thehonour? And I will let him talk by the half hour of the count duke, andthe Spanish keeper of the castle, and then I will throw in some remarksabout the signor count of the secret council, my uncle; you know whateffect this will have. Finally, he has more need of our protection, thanyou have of his condescension. He knows this well enough, and I shallleave him better disposed than I find him, that you may depend upon." Sosaying, he took his departure, leaving Don Roderick alone to wait thereturn of Griso, who had been, in obedience to his orders, reconnoitringthe ground, and ascertaining the state of the public mind with regard tothe events of the preceding night. He came at last, at the hour ofdinner, to give in his relation. The tumult of this night had been soloud, and the disappearance of three persons from the village somysterious, that strict and indefatigable search would naturally be madefor them; and on the other hand, those who were possessed of partialinformation on the subject were too numerous to preserve an entiresilence. Perpetua was assailed every where to tell what had caused hermaster such a fright, and she, perceiving how she had been deceived byAgnes, and feeling exasperated at her perfidy, had need of a littleself-restraint; not that she complained of the deception practised onherself, of that she did not breathe a syllable; but the injury done toher poor master could not pass in silence, and that such an injuryshould have been attempted by such worthy people! Don Abbondio couldcommand and entreat her to be silent, and she could reply that there wasno necessity for inculcating a thing so obvious and proper, but certain

it is that the secret remained in the heart of the poor woman as newwine in an old cask, which ferments and bubbles, and if it does not sendthe bung into the air, works out in foam between the staves, and dropshere and there, so that one can drink it, and tell what sort of wine itis. Jervase, who could scarcely believe that for once he knew a littlemore than others, and who felt himself a man, since he had been anaccomplice in a criminal affair, was dying to communicate it. And Tony,however alarmed at the thoughts of further enquiries and investigation,was bursting, in spite of all his prudence, till he had told the wholesecret to his wife, who was not dumb. The one who spoke least wasMenico, because his parents, alarmed at his coming into collision withDon Roderick, had kept him in the house for several days; theythemselves, however, without wishing to appear to know more than others,insinuated that the fugitives had taken refuge at Pescarenico. Thisreport, then, became current among the villagers. But no one couldaccount for the attack of the bravoes: all agreed in suspecting DonRoderick; but the rest was total obscurity. The presence of the threebravoes at the inn was discussed, and the landlord was interrogated; buthis memory was, on this point, as defective as ever. His inn, heconcluded as usual, was just like a sea-port. Who was this pilgrim, seenby Stefano and Carlandrea, and whom the robbers wished to murder, andhad carried off? For what purpose had he been at the cottage? Some saidit was a good spirit, come to the assistance of the inmates; others,that it was the spirit of a wicked pilgrim, who came at night to joinsuch companions, and perform such deeds, as he had been accustomed towhile living; others, again, went so far as to conjecture that it wasone of these very robbers, clothed like a pilgrim; so that Griso, withall his experience, would have been at a loss to discover who it was, ifhe had expected to acquire this information from others. But, as thereader knows, that which was perplexity to them, was perfect clearnessto Griso. He was enabled, therefore, from these various sources, toobtain a sufficiently distinct account for the ear of Don Roderick. Herelated the attempt upon Don Abbondio, which accounted for thedesertion of the cottage, without the necessity of imagining a spy inthe palace: he told of their flight, which might be accounted for by thefear of the discovery of their trick upon Don Abbondio, or by theintelligence that their cottage had been broken into, and that they hadprobably gone together to Pescarenico. "Fled together!" cried DonRoderick, hoarse with rage: "together! and this rascal friar! this friarshall answer it! Griso, this night I must know where they are. I shallhave no peace; ascertain if they are at Pescarenico; quick; fly; fourcrowns immediately, and my protection for ever! this rascal! thisfriar!"

Griso was once more in the field; and on the evening of this very dayreported to his worthy master the desired intelligence, and by thefollowing means. The good man by whom the little party had beenconducted to Monza, returning with his carriage to Pescarenico at thehour of vespers, chanced to meet, before he reached his home, aparticular friend, to whom he related, in great confidence, the goodwork he had accomplished; so that Griso could, two hours after, informDon Roderick that Lucy and her mother had taken refuge in a convent ofMonza, and that Renzo had proceeded on his way to Milan. Don Roderickfelt his hopes revive at this separation; and having, during great partof the night, revolved in his mind the measures for effecting his wickedpurpose, he aroused Griso early in the morning, and gave him the ordershe had premeditated.

"Signor?" said Griso, hesitating.

"Well, have I have not spoken clearly?"

"If you would send some other----"

"How?"

"Most illustrious signor, I am ready to sacrifice my life for my master,and it is my duty to do so; but you, you would not desire me to place itin peril?"

"Well?"

"Your illustrious lordship knows well these few murders that are laid tomy account, and----Here I am under the protection of your lordship, andin Milan the livery of your lordship is known, but in Monza _I_ amknown. And, your lordship knows, I do not say it boastingly, he whoshould deliver me up to justice would be well rewarded, a hundred goodcrowns, and permission to liberate two banditti."

"What, the devil!" said Don Roderick, "you are like a vile cur, who hasscarce courage to rush at the legs of such as pass by the door; and, notdaring to leave the house, keeps himself within the protection of hismaster."

"I think I have given proof, signor," said Griso.

"Well?"

"Well," resumed Griso, boldly, thus put on his mettle, "your lordshipmust forget my hesitation; heart of a lion, legs of a hare, I am readyto go."

"But you shall not go alone; take with you two of the best; _Cut-face_and _Aim-well_, and go boldly, and show yourself to be still Griso. Thedevil! people will be well content to let such faces as yours passwithout molestation! And as to the bailiffs of Monza, they must havebecome weary of life to place it in such danger, for the chance of ahundred crowns! But I do not believe that I am so far unknown there,that the stamp of my service should pass for nothing."

Griso, having received ample and minute instructions, took hisdeparture, accompanied by the two bravoes; cursing in his heart thewhims of his master.

It now became the design of Don Roderick to contrive some way, by whichRenzo, separated as he was from Lucy, should be prevented fromattempting to return. He thought that the most certain means would be tohave him sent out of the state, but this required the sanction of thelaw; he could, for example, give a colouring to the attempt at thecurate's house, and represent it as a seditious act, and through DoctorAzzecca Garbugli give the _podestà_ to understand that it was his dutyto apprehend Renzo. But while he thought of the doctor as the man themost suitable for this service, Renzo himself put an end to much furtherdeliberation on the subject by withdrawing himself.

Like the boy who drives his little Indian pigs to the fold, whoseobstinacy impels them divers ways, and thus obliges him first to applyto one and then to another till he can succeed in penning them all, soare we obliged to play the same game with the personages of our story.Having secured Lucy, we ran to Don Roderick. Him we now quit to give anaccount of Renzo.

After the mournful parting which we have related, he set out,discouraged and disheartened, on his way to Milan. To bid farewell tohis home and his country, and what was more, to Lucy! to find himselfamong strangers, not knowing where to rest his head, and all on accountof this villain! When these thoughts presented themselves to the mind ofRenzo, he was, for the moment, absorbed by rage and the desire ofrevenge; but when he recollected the prayer that he had uttered with thegood friar in the convent of Pescarenico, his better feelings prevailed,and he was enabled to acquire some degree of resignation to thechastisements of which he stood so much in need. The road lay betweentwo high banks; it was muddy, stony, and furrowed by deep wheel tracks,which, after a rain, became rivulets, overflowing the road, andrendering it nearly impassable. In such places small raised footpathsindicated that others had found a way by the fields. Renzo ascended oneof these paths to the high ground, whence he beheld, as if rising from adesert, and not in the midst of a city, the noble structure of thecathedral, and he forgot all his misfortunes in contemplating, even at adistance, this eighth wonder of the world, of which he had heard so muchfrom his infancy. But looking back, he saw in the horizon the notchedridge of mountains, and distinctly perceiving, among them, his own_Resegone_, he gazed at it mournfully a while, and then with a beatingheart went on his way; steeples, towers, cupolas, and roofs soonappeared: he descended into the road, and when he perceived that he wasvery near the city, he accosted a traveller, with the civility which wasnatural to him, "Will you be so good, sir----"

"What do you want, my good young man?"

"Will you be so good as to direct me by the shortest way to the conventof the capuchins, where Father Bonaventura resides?"

He replied, very affably, "My good lad, there is more than one convent;you must tell me more clearly what and whom you seek."

Renzo then took from his bosom the letter of Father Christopher, andpresented it to the gentleman, who, after having read it, returned it,saying, "The eastern gate; you are fortunate, young man--the convent youseek is but a short distance from this. Take this path to the left; itis a by-way, and in a little while you will find yourself by the side ofa long and low building; that is the _lazaretto_; keep along the ditchthat encircles it, and you will soon be at the eastern gate. Enter, anda few steps further on you will see before you an open square with fineelm trees; the convent is there--you cannot mistake it. God be withyou!" And accompanying his last words with a kind wave of his hand, heproceeded on his way. Renzo was astonished at the good manners of thecitizens to countrymen, not knowing that it was an extraordinary day, aday in which cloaks humbled themselves to doublets. He followed the pathwhich had been pointed out to him, and arrived at the eastern entrance,which consisted of two pilasters, with a roofing above to secure the

gates, and on one side was a small house for the toll-gatherer. Theopenings of the rampart descended irregularly, and their surface wasfilled with rubbish. The street of the suburb which led from this gatewas not unlike the one which now opens from the Tosa gate. A small ditchran in the midst of it, until within a few steps of the gate, anddivided it into two small crooked streets, covered with dust or mud,according to the season. At the place where was, and is still, thecollection of houses called the Borghetto, the ditch empties itself intoa common sewer, and thence into another ditch which runs along thewalls. At this point was a column with a cross oh it, dedicated to _SanDionigi_; to the right and left were gardens enclosed by hedges, and atintervals, small houses inhabited for the most part by washerwomen.Renzo passed through the gate, without being stopped by thetoll-gatherer, which appeared to him very remarkable, as he had heardthose few of his townsmen, who could boast of having been at Milan,relate wonderful stories of the strict search and close enquiries towhich those were subjected who entered its gates. The street wasdeserted, and if he had not heard the humming of a crowd at a distance,he might have thought he was entering a city which had been abandoned byits inhabitants. As he advanced, he saw on the pavement somethingscattered here and there, which was as white as snow, but snow at thisseason it could not be; he touched it, and found that it was flour."There must be a great plenty in Milan," said he, "if they thus throwaway the gifts of God. They give out that famine is every where; thisthey do to keep poor people abroad quiet." But in a few moments hearrived in front of the column, and saw on the steps of the pedestalcertain things scattered, which were not assuredly stones, and which, ifthey had been on a baker's counter, he would not have hesitated to callloaves of bread. But Renzo dared not so easily trust his eyes, becausetruly this was not a place for bread. "Let us see what this is," saidhe, and approaching the column, he took one in his hand; it was, indeed,a very white loaf of bread, such as Renzo was accustomed to eat only onfestival days. "It is really bread!" said he, in wonder. "Do theyscatter it thus here? And in a year like this? And do they suffer it tolie here, and not take the trouble to gather it? This must be a fineplace to live in!" After ten miles of travel, in the fresh air of themorning, the sight of the bread awaked his appetite. "Shall I take it?"said he again. "Poh! they have left it to the dogs; surely, a Christianmay take advantage of it; and if the owner should come, I can pay him atany rate." So saying, he put in one pocket that which he had in hishand, took a second, and put it in the other, and a third, which hebegan to eat, and resumed his way, full of wonder at the strangeness ofthe incident. As he moved on he saw people approaching from the interiorof the city; and his attention was drawn to those who appeared first; aman, a woman, and a boy, each with a load which seemed beyond theirstrength, and exhibiting each a grotesque appearance. Their clothes, orrather their rags, powdered with meal, their faces the same, andexcessively heated; they walked, not only as if overcome by the weight,but as if their limbs had been beaten and bruised. The man supportedwith difficulty a great bag of flour, which having holes here and there,scattered its contents at every unequal movement. But the figure of thewoman was still more remarkable: she had her petticoat turned up, filledwith as much flour as it could hold, and a little more; so that fromtime to time it flew over the pavement. She was, indeed, a grotesquepicture, with her arms stretched out to encompass her burden, andstaggering under its weight, her bare legs were seen beneath it. The boyheld with both hands a basket full of bread on his head, but he was

detained behind his parents to pick up the loaves which were constantlyfalling from it.

"If you let another fall, you ugly little dog----" said the mother, in arage.

"I don't let them fall; they fall of themselves. How can I help it?"replied he.

"Eh! it's well for thee that my hands are full," resumed the woman.

"Come, come," said the man, "now that we have a little plenty, let usenjoy it in peace."

Meanwhile there had arrived a company of strangers, and one of themaddressed the woman, "Where are we to go for bread?"--"On, on," repliedshe, and added, muttering, "These rascal countrymen will sweep all theshops and warehouses, and leave none for us."

"There is a share for every one, chatterer," said her husband; "plenty,plenty."

From all that Renzo saw and heard, he gathered that there was aninsurrection in the city, and that each one provided for himself, inproportion to his will and strength. Although we would desire to makeour poor mountaineer appear to the most advantage, historical truthobliges us to say that his first sentiment was that of complacency. Hehad so little to rejoice at, in the ordinary course of affairs, that hecongratulated himself on a change, of whatever nature it might be. Andfor the rest, he, who was not a man superior to the age in which helived, held the common opinion that the scarcity of bread had beencaused by the speculators and bakers, and that any method would bejustifiable, of wresting from them the aliment which they cruelly deniedto the people. However, he determined to keep away from the tumult, andcongratulated himself on the good fortune of having for his friend acapuchin, who would afford him shelter and good advice. Occupied withsuch reflections, and noticing from time to time as more people came uploaded with plunder, he proceeded to the convent.

The church and convent of the capuchins was situated in the centre of asmall square, shaded by elm trees; Renzo placed in his bosom hisremaining half loaf, and with his letter in his hand, approached thegate and rung the bell. At a small grated window appeared the face of afriar, porter to the convent, to ask "who was there?"

"One from the country, who brings a letter to Father Bonaventura, fromFather Christopher."

"Give here," said the friar, thrusting his hand through the grate.

"No, no," said Renzo, "I must give it into his own hands."

"He is not in the convent."

"Suffer me to enter and wait for him," replied Renzo.

"You had best wait in the church," said the friar; "perhaps that may be

of service to you. Into the convent you do not enter at present." Sosaying, he hastily closed the window, leaving Renzo to receive therepulse with the best grace he could. He was about to follow the adviceof the porter, when he was seized with the desire to give a glance atthe tumult. He crossed the square, and advanced towards the middle ofthe city, where the disturbance was greatest. Whilst he is proceedingthither, we will relate, as briefly as possible, the causes of thiscommotion.

CHAPTER XII.

This was the second year of the scarcity; in the preceding one, theprovisions, remaining from past years, had supplied in some measure thedeficiency, and we find the population neither altogether satisfied, noryet starved; but certainly unprovided for in the year 1628, the periodof our story. Now this harvest, so anxiously desired, was still moredeficient than that of the past year, partly from the character of theseason itself (and that not only in the Milanese but also in thesurrounding country), and partly from the instrumentality of men. Thehavoc of the war, of which we have before made mention, had sodevastated the state, that a greater number of farms than ordinaryremained uncultivated and deserted by the peasants, who, instead ofproviding, by their labour, bread for their families, were obliged tobeg it from door to door. We say a greater number of farms thanordinary, because the insupportable taxes, levied with a cupidity andfolly unequalled; the habitual conduct, even in time of peace, of thestanding troops (conduct which the mournful documents of the age compareto that of an invading army), and other causes which we cannotenumerate, had for some time slowly operated to produce these sadeffects in all the Milanese,--the particular circumstances of which wenow speak were, therefore, like the unexpected exasperation of a chronicdisease. Hardly had this harvest been gathered, when the supplies forthe army, and the waste which always accompanies them, caused anexcessive scarcity, and with it its painful but profitable concomitant,a high price upon provisions; but this, attaining a certain point,always creates in the mind of the multitude a suspicion that scarcity isnot in reality the cause of it. They forget that they had both fearedand predicted it: they imagine all at once that there must be grainsufficient, and that the evil lies in an unwillingness to sell it forconsumption. Preposterous as these suppositions were, they weregoverned by them, so that the speculators in grain, real or imaginary,the farmers, the bakers, became the object of their universal dislike.They could tell certainly where there were magazines overflowing withgrain, and could even enumerate the number of sacks: they spoke withassurance of the immense quantity of corn which had been despatched toother places, where probably the people were deluded with a similarstory, and made to believe that the grain raised among _them_ had beensent to Milan! They implored from the magistrate those precautions,which always appear equitable and simple to the populace. Themagistrates complied, and fixed the price on each commodity, threateningpunishment to such as should refuse to sell; notwithstanding this, theevil continued to increase. This the people attributed to the feeblenessof the remedies, and loudly called for some of a more decided character;

unhappily they found a man that was willing to grant them all theyshould ask.

In the absence of the Governor Don Gonzalo Fernandez de Cordova, who wasencamped beyond Casale, in Montferrat, the High Chancellor AntonioFerrer, also a Spaniard, supplied his place in Milan. He considered thelow price of bread to be in itself desirable, and vainly imagined thatan order from him would be sufficient to accomplish it. He fixed thelimit, therefore, at the price the bread would have had when corn wasthirty-three livres the bushel; whereas it was now as high as eighty.

Over the execution of these laws the people themselves watched, and weredetermined to receive the benefit of them quickly. They assembled incrowds before the bakers' houses to demand bread at the price fixed;there was no remedy; the bakers were employed night and day in supplyingtheir wants, inasmuch as the people, having a confused idea that theprivilege would be transient, ceased not to besiege their houses, inorder to enjoy to the utmost their temporary good fortune. Themagistrates threatened punishment--the multitude murmured at every delayof the bakers in furnishing them. These remonstrated incessantly againstthe iniquitous and insupportable weight of the burden imposed on them;but Antonio Ferrer replied, that they had possessed great advantages intimes past, and now owed the public some reparation. Finally, thecouncil of ten (a municipal magistracy composed of nobles, which lasteduntil the ninety-seventh year of the century just elapsed,) informed thegovernor of the state in which things were, hoping that he would findsome remedy. Don Gonzalo, immersed in the business of war, named acouncil, upon whom he conferred authority to fix a reasonable price uponbread, so that both parties should be satisfied. The deputies assembled,and after much deliberation felt themselves compelled to augment theprice of it: the bakers breathed, but the people became furious.

The evening preceding the day on which Renzo arrived at Milan, thestreets swarmed with people, who, governed by one common feeling,strangers or friends, had intuitively united themselves in companiesthroughout the city. Every observation tended to increase their rage andtheir resentment; various opinions were given, and many exclamationsuttered; here, one declaimed aloud to a circle of bystanders, whoapplauded vehemently; there, another more cautious, but not lessdangerous, was whispering in the ear of a neighbour or two, thatsomething must and would be done: in short, there was an incessant anddiscordant din from the medley of men, women, and children, whichcomposed the various assemblages. There was now only required an impetusto set the machine in motion, and reduce words to deeds; and anopportunity soon presented itself. At the break of day little boys wereseen issuing from the bakers' shops with baskets on their heads, loadedwith bread, which they were about to carry to their usual customers. Theappearance of one of these unlucky boys in an assembly of people waslike a squib thrown into a gunpowder mill. "Here is bread!" cried ahundred voices at once. "Yes, for our tyrants, who swim in abundance,and wish to make us die in hunger," said one, who drew near the boy, andseizing the basket, cried out, "Let us see." The boy coloured, grewpale, trembled, and would have entreated them to let him pass on, butthe words died on his lips; he then endeavoured to free himself from thebasket. "Down with the basket" was heard on all sides; it was seized bymany hands, and placed on the earth: they raised the napkin whichcovered it, and a tepid fragrance diffused itself around. "We are

Christians also," said one; "and have a right to eat bread as well asother people:" so saying, he took a loaf and bit it; the rest followedhis example; and it is unnecessary to add, that in a few moments thecontents of the basket had disappeared. Those who had not been able tosecure any for themselves were irritated at the sight of theirneighbours' gains, and animated by the facility of the enterprise, wentin search of other boys with baskets; as many, therefore, as they metwere stopped and plundered. Still the number who remained unsatisfiedwas beyond comparison the greatest, and even the gainers were onlystimulated by their success to ampler enterprises; so thatsimultaneously there was a shout from the crowd of "To the bake-house!to the bake-house!"

In the street called the _Corsia de' Servi_ there was, and is still, abakery of the same name,--a name that signifies in Tuscan the _Shop ofthe Crutches_, and in Milanese is composed of such barbarous words, thatit is impossible to discover their sound from any rule of thelanguage.[4] To this place the throng approached: the shopkeepers werelistening to the sad relation of the boys, who had but just escaped withtheir lives, when they heard a distant murmur, and beheld the crowdadvancing.

[4] El prestin di scansc.

"Shut, shut! quick, quick!" some ran to ask aid from the sheriff; othersin haste closed the shop, and barricadoed and secured the doors fromwithin. The throng thickened in front, and cries of "Bread, bread! open,open!" were heard from every quarter. The sheriff arrived with a troopof halberdiers. "Make way, make way, friends! home, home! make way forthe sheriff," cried they. The people gave way a little, so that theycould draw themselves up in front of the door of the shop. "But,friends," cried the sheriff from this place, "what do you do here? Home,home! have you no fear of God? What will our lord the king say? We donot wish you harm; but go home. There is no good to be gained here forsoul or body. Home, home!" The crowd, regardless of his expostulations,pressed forward, themselves being urged on by increasing multitudesbehind. "Make them draw back, that I may recover breath," continued heto the halberdiers, "but harm no one--we will endeavour to get into theshop--make them keep back, and knock at the door."--"Back, back," criedthe halberdiers, presenting the but-ends of their arms; the throngretreated a little; the sheriff knocked, crying to those within to open;they obeyed, and he and his guard contrived to intrench themselveswithin the house; then, appearing at a window above, "Friends," criedhe, "go home. A general pardon to whoever shall return immediately totheir houses."

"Bread, bread! open, open!" vociferated the crowd in reply.

"You shall have justice, friends; but return to your houses. You shallhave bread; but this is not the way to obtain it. Eh! what are you doingbelow there? At the door of the house! hah! hah! Take care; it is acriminal act. Eh! away with those tools! take down those hands! hah!hah! You Milanese, who are famous throughout the world for yourbenevolence, who have always been accounted good citi---- Ah! rascals!"

This rapid change of style was occasioned by a stone thrown by one ofthese good citizens at the sheriff's head. "Rascals! rascals!" continued

he, closing the window in a rage. The confusion below increased; stoneswere thrown at the doors and windows, and they had nearly opened a wayinto the shop. Meanwhile the master and boys of the shop, who were atthe windows of the story above, with a supply of stones (obtainedprobably from the court-yard), threatened to throw them upon the crowdif they did not disperse. Perceiving their threats to be of no avail,they commenced putting them in execution.

"Ah! villains! ah! rogues! Is this the bread you give to the poor?" wasscreamed from below. Many were wounded, two were killed; the fury of themultitude increased; the doors were broken open, and the torrent rushedthrough all the passages. At this, those within took refuge under theshop floor; the sheriff and the halberdiers hid themselves beneath thetiles; others escaped by the skylights, and wandered upon the roofs likecats.

The sight of their prey made the conquerors forget their designs ofsanguinary vengeance; some rushed to the chests, and plundered them ofbread; others hastened to force the locks of the counter, and took fromthence handfulls of money, which they pocketed, and then returned totake more bread, if there should remain any. Others, again, entered theinterior magazines, and, throwing out part of the flour, reduced thebags to a portable size; some attacked a kneading trough, and made abooty of the dough; a few had made a prize of a bolting cloth, whichthey raised in the air as in triumph, and, in addition to all, men,women, and children were covered with a cloud of white powder.

While this shop was so ransacked, none of the others in the cityremained quiet, or free from danger. But at none had the peopleassembled in such numbers as to be very daring; in some, the owners hadprovided auxiliaries, and were on the defensive; in others, the ownersless strong in numbers, and more affrighted, endeavoured to compromisematters; they distributed bread to those who crowded around their shops,and thus got rid of them. And these did not depart so much because theywere content with the acquisition, as from fear of the halberdiers andofficers of justice, who were now scattered throughout the city, incompanies sufficient to keep these little bands of mutineers insubjection. In the mean time the tumult and the crowd increased in frontof the unfortunate bakery, as the strength of the populace had here theadvantage. Things were in this situation, when Renzo, coming from theeastern gate, approached, without knowing it, the scene of tumult.Hurried along by the crowd, he endeavoured to extract from the confusedshouting of the throng some more positive information of the real stateof affairs.

"Now the infamous imposition of these rascals is discovered," said one;"they said there was neither bread, flour, nor corn. Now we know thingsjust as they are, and they can no longer deceive us."

"I tell you that all this answers no purpose," said another; "it willdo no good unless justice be done to us. Bread will be cheap enough,'tis true, but they will put poison in it to make the poor die likeflies. They have already said we are too numerous, I know they have; Iheard it from one of my acquaintances, who is a friend of a relation ofa scullion of one of the lords."

"Make way, make way, gentlemen, I beseech you; make way for a poor

father of a family who is carrying bread to five children!" This wassaid by one who came staggering under the weight of a bag of flour.

"I," said another, in an under tone, to one of his companions, "I amgoing away. I am a man of the world, and I know how these things go.These clowns, who now make so much noise, will prove themselves cowardsto-morrow. I have already perceived some among the crowd who are takingnote of those who are present, and when all is over, they will make upthe account, and the guilty will pay the penalty."

"He who protects the bakers," cried a sonorous voice, which attractedthe attention of Renzo, "is the superintendent of provisions."

"They are all rogues," said a neighbour.

"Yes, but he is the chief," replied the one who had first spoken.

The superintendent of provisions, elected every year by the governorfrom a list of seven nobles formed from the council of ten, was thepresident of the court of provision, which, composed of twelve nobles,had, with other duties, that of superintending the corn for thecitizens. Persons in such a station would naturally, in times ofstarvation and ignorance, be considered as the authors of all the evil.

"Cheats!" exclaimed another; "can they do worse? They have had theaudacity to say that the high chancellor is a childish old man, and theywish to take the government into their own hands. We ought to make agreat coop, and put them in, to feed upon dry peas and cockleweed, asthey would fain have us do."

While listening to such observations as the above, Renzo continued tomake his way through the crowd, and at last arrived in front of thebakery. On viewing its dilapidated and ruinous state, after the assaultjust sustained, "This cannot be a good deed," thought he: "if they treatall the bake-houses in this manner, where will they make bread?"

From time to time, some were seen issuing from the house, loaded withpieces of chests, or troughs, or a bench, basket, or some other relic ofthe poor building, and crying, "Make way, make way!" passed through thecrowd. These were all carried in the same direction, and it appeared toa place agreed upon. Renzo's curiosity being excited, he followed onewho carried a bundle of pieces of board and chips on his shoulder, andfound that he took the direction of the cathedral. On passing it, themountaineer could not avoid stopping a moment to gaze with admiring eyeson the magnificent structure. He then quickened his steps to rejoin himwhom he had taken as a guide, and, keeping behind him, they drew nearthe middle of the square. The crowd was here more dense, but they openeda way for the carrier, and Renzo, skilfully introducing himself in thevoid left by him, arrived with him in the very midst of the multitude.Here there was an open space, in the centre of which was a bonfire, aheap of embers, the remains of the tools mentioned above; surrounding itwas heard a clapping of hands and stamping of feet, the tumult of athousand cries of triumph and imprecation.

He of the boards threw them on the embers, and some, with pieces ofhalf-burnt shovel, stirred them until the flame ascended, upon whichtheir shouts were renewed louder than before. The flame sank again, and

the company, for want of more combustibles, began to be weary, when areport spread, that at the Cordusio (a square or cross-way not far fromthere) they were besieging a bakery: then was heard on all sides, "Letus go, let us go;" and the crowd moved on. Renzo was drawn along withthe current, but in the mean while held counsel with himself, whether hehad not best withdraw from the fray, and return to the convent in searchof Father Bonaventura; but curiosity again prevailed, and he sufferedhimself to be carried forward, with the determination, however, ofremaining a mere spectator of the scene.

The multitude passed through the short and narrow street of Pescheria,and thence by the crooked arch to the square de' Mercanti. Here therewere very few, who, in passing before the niche that divides towards thecentre the terrace of the edifice then called the College of Doctors,did not give a slight glance at the great statue contained in it ofPhilip II., who even from the marble imposed respect, and who, with hisarm extended, appeared to be menacing the populace for their rebellion.

This niche is now empty, and from a singular circumstance. About onehundred and sixty years after the events we are now relating, the headof the statue was changed, the sceptre taken from its hand, and a daggersubstituted in its place, and beneath it was written _Marcus Brutus_.Thus inserted it remained perhaps a couple of years, until one day, somepersons, who had no sympathies with Marcus Brutus, but rather anaversion to him, threw a rope around the statue, pulled it down, and,reducing it to a shapeless mass, dragged it, with many insultinggestures, beyond the walls of the city. Who would have foretold this toAndrea Biffi when he sculptured it?

From the square de' Mercanti, the clamorous troop at length arrived atthe Cordusio. Each one immediately looked towards the shop; but, insteadof the crowd of friends which they expected to find engaged on itsdemolition, there were but a few, at a distance from the shop, which wasshut, and defended from the windows by armed people. They fell back, andthere was a murmur through the crowd of unwillingness to risk the hazardof proceeding, when a voice was heard to cry aloud, "Near by is thehouse of the superintendent of provision; let us do justice, and plunderit." There was a universal acceptance of the proposal, and "To thesuperintendent's! to the superintendent's!" was the only sound thatcould be heard. The crowd moved with unanimous fury towards the streetwhere the house, named in such an evil moment, was situated.

CHAPTER XIII.

The unfortunate superintendent was at this moment painfully digestinghis miserable dinner, whilst awaiting anxiously the termination of thishurricane; he was, however, far from suspecting that its greatest furywas to be spent on himself. Some benevolent persons hastened forward toinform him of his urgent peril. The servants, drawn to the door by theuproar, beheld, in affright, the dense mass advancing. While theylistened to the friendly notice, the vanguard appeared; one hastilyinformed his master; and while he, for a moment, deliberated uponflight, another came to say there was no longer time for it; in hurry

and confusion they closed and barricadoed the windows and the doors. Thehowling without increased; each corner of the house resounded with it;and in the midst of the vast and mingled noise was heard, fearfully anddistinctly, the blows of stones upon the door. "The tyrant! the tyrant!the causer of famine! we must have him, living or dead!"

The poor man wandered from room to room in a state of insupportablealarm, commending himself to God, and beseeching his servants to befirm, and to find for him some way of escape! He ascended to the highestfloor, and, from an opening between the garret and the roof, he lookedanxiously out upon the street, and beheld it filled with the enragedpopulace; more appalled than ever, he withdrew to seek the most secureand secret hiding-place. Here, concealed, he listened intently toascertain if at any time the importunate transport of passion shouldweaken, if the tumult should in any degree subside; but his heart diedwithin him to hear the uproar continue with aggravated and savageferocity.

Renzo at this time found himself in the thickest of the confusion, notnow carried there by the press, but by his own inclination. At the firstproposal of blood-shedding, he felt his own curdle in his veins; as tothe plundering, he was not quite certain whether it was right or wrong;but the idea of murder caused him unmixed horror. And although he wasgreatly persuaded that the vicar was the primary cause of the famine,the grand criminal, still, having, at the first movement of the crowd,heard, by chance, some expressions which indicated a willingness to makeany effort to save him, he had suddenly determined to aid such a work,and had therefore pressed near the door, which was assailed in athousand ways. Some were pounding the lock to break it in pieces; othersassisted with stakes, and chisels, and hammers; others, again, tore awaythe plastering, and beat in pieces the wall, in order to effect abreach. The rest, who were unable to get near the house, encouraged bytheir shouts those who were at the work of destruction; though,fortunately, through the eagerness with which they pressed forward, theyimpeded its progress.

The magistrates, who were the first to have notice of the fray,despatched a messenger to ask military aid of the commander of thecastle, which was then called, from the gate, Giovia; and he forthwithdetached a troop, which arrived when the house was encompassed with thethrong, and undergoing its tremendous assault; and was therefore obligedto halt at a distance from it, and at the extremity of the crowd. Theofficer who commanded it did not know what course to pursue; at theorder to disperse and make way, the people replied by a deep andcontinued murmur, but no one moved. To fire on the crowd appeared notonly savage, but perilous, inasmuch as the most harmless might beinjured, and the most ferocious only irritated, and prepared for furthermischief; and moreover his instructions did not authorise it. To breakthe crowd, and go forward with his band to the house, would have beenthe best, if success could have been certain; but who could tell if thesoldiers could proceed united and in order? The irresolution of thecommander seemed to proceed from fear: the populace were unmoved by theappearance of the soldiers, and continued their attacks on the house. Ata little distance there stood an ill-looking, half-starved old man, who,contracting an angry countenance to a smile of diabolical complacency,brandished above his hoary head a hammer, with which he said he meant tonail the vicar to the posts of his door, alive as he was.

"Oh, shame! shame!" exclaimed Renzo. "Shame! would you take thehangman's business out of his hand? to assassinate a Christian? How canyou expect God will give us bread, if we commit such iniquity? He willsend us his thunders, and not bread!"

"Ah! dog! ah! traitor to the country!" cried one who had heard thesewords, turning to Renzo with the countenance of a demon. "It is aservant of the vicar's disguised like a countryman; it is a spy!" Ahundred voices were heard exclaiming, "Who is it? where is he?"--"Aservant of the vicar's--a spy--the vicar himself, escaping in thedisguise of a peasant!"--"Where is he? where is he?"

Renzo would have shrunk into nothingness,--some of the more benevolentcontrived to help him to disappear through the crowd; but that whichpreserved him most effectually was a cry of "Make way, here comes ourhelp, make way!" which attracted the attention of the throng.

This was a long scaling ladder, supported by a few persons who wereendeavouring to penetrate the living mass, and by which they meant togain entrance to the house. But, happily, this was not easy ofexecution; the length of the machine precluded the possibility of itsbeing carried easily through such a multitude; it came, however, just intime for Renzo, who profited by the confusion, and escaped to adistance, with the intention of making his way, as soon as he could, tothe convent, in search of Father Bonaventura.

Suddenly a new movement began at one extremity, and diffused itselfthrough the crowd:--"Ferrer, Ferrer!" resounded from every side. Somewere surprised, some rejoiced, some were exasperated, some applauded,some affirmed, some denied, some blessed, some cursed!

"Is he here? It is not true; it is not true. Yes, yes, long live Ferrer,he who makes bread cheap.--No, no! He is here--here in a carriage! Whydoes he come?--we don't want him.--Ferrer! long live Ferrer! the friendof the poor! he comes to take the vicar prisoner.--No, no, we wouldrevenge _ourselves_, we would fight our own battles; back, back.--Yes,yes, Ferrer! Let him come! to prison with the vicar!"

At the extremity of the crowd, on the side opposite to that where thesoldiers were, Antonio Ferrer, the high chancellor, was approaching inhis carriage, who, probably condemning himself as the cause of thiscommotion, had come to avert at least its most terrific and irreparableeffects, to spend worthily a popularity unworthily acquired.

In popular tumults there are always some who, from heated passion, orfanaticism, or wicked design, do what they can to push things to theworst; proposing and promoting the most barbarous counsels, andassisting to stir the fire whenever it appears to slacken. But, on theother hand, there are always those who, perhaps with equal ardour, andequal perseverance, employ their efforts for the production of contraryeffects; some led by friendship or partiality for the persons in danger,others without other impulse than that of horror of bloodshed andatrocity. The mass, then, is ever composed of a mixed assemblage, who,by indefinite gradations, hold to one or the other extreme; prompt torage or compassion, to adoration or execration, according as theoccasion presents itself for the developement of either of these

sentiments: _life_ and _death_ are the words involuntarily uttered, andwith equal facility; and he who succeeds in persuading them that such anone does not deserve to be quartered, has but little more to do, toconvince them that he ought to be carried in triumph.

While these various interests were contending for superiority in themob, before the house of the vicar, the appearance of Antonio Ferrergave instantly a great advantage to the humane, who were manifestlyyielding to the greater strength of the ferocious and blood-thirsty. Theman himself was acceptable to the multitude, from his having previouslyfavoured their cause, and from his heroic resistance to any argumentsagainst it. Those already favourably inclined towards him were now muchmore affected by the courageous confidence of an old man, who, withoutguards or retinue, came thus to confront an angry and stormy multitude.The announcement that his purpose was to take the vicar prisoner,produced at once a wonderful effect; and the fury against that unhappyperson, which would have been aggravated by any attempt at defiance, orrefusal of concession, now, with the promise of satisfaction, and, tospeak in the Milanese fashion, with this bone in the mouth, became in adegree appeased, and gave place to other opposite sentiments, whichbegan to prevail over their minds.

The partisans of peace, having recovered breath, aided Ferrer in variousways; those who were near him, while endeavouring by their own toperpetuate the general applause, sought at the same time to keep off thecrowd, so as to open a passage for the carriage; others applauded andrepeated his words, or such as appeared appropriate to his undertakingand his peril; imposed silence on the obstinately furious, or contrivedto turn against _them_ the anger of the fickle assembly. "Who is it thatwill not say, Long live Ferrer? You don't wish bread to be cheap, then,eh? They are rogues who are not willing to receive justice at the handsof a Christian, and there are some among them who cry louder than therest, to allow the vicar to escape. To prison with the superintendent!Long live Ferrer! Make way for Ferrer!" The numbers of those who spokein this manner increasing continually, the numbers of the opposite partydiminished in proportion; so that the former, from admonishing, hadrecourse to blows, in order to silence those who were still disposed topursue the work of destruction. The menaces and threatenings of theweaker party were of no longer avail; the cause of blood had ceased topredominate, and in its place were heard only the cries of "Prison,justice, Ferrer!" The rebellious spirits were finally silenced: theremainder took possession of the door, in order to defend it from freshattacks, and also to prepare a passage for Ferrer; and some among themcalled to those within (openings were not wanting) that succour hadarrived, and that the vicar must get ready "to go quickly--toprison--hem! do you hear?"

"Is this the Ferrer who helps in making the proclamations?" asked ourRenzo of one of his new neighbours, remembering the _vidit Ferrera_ thatthe doctor had shown him appended to the famous proclamation, and whichhe had reiterated in his ears with so great a degree of pertinacity.

"The same, the high chancellor," replied he.

"He is a worthy man, is he not?"

"He is more than worthy; it is he who has lowered the price of bread,

against the wishes of others in power, and now he comes to carry thevicar to prison, because he has not acted justly."

It is unnecessary to say, that Renzo's feelings were immediatelyenlisted on the side of Ferrer. He was desirous to approach near him,but the undertaking was no easy one; however, with the decision andstrength of a mountaineer, he continued to elbow himself through thecrowd, and finally reached the side of the carriage.

The carriage had already penetrated into the midst of the crowd, but washere suddenly stopped by one of those obstructions, the unavoidableconsequence of a journey like this. The aged Ferrer presented, now atone window of his carriage, now at the other, a countenance full ofhumility, of sweetness, and benevolence; a countenance which he hadalways kept in reserve for the day in which he should appear before DonPhilip IV.; but he was constrained to make use of it on this occasion.He spoke; but the noise and buzzing of so many voices, and the shouts ofapplause which they bestowed on him, allowed but little of his discourseto be heard. He had recourse also to gestures; now placing his fingerson his lips, to take from thence a kiss, which his enclosed handsdistributed to right and left, as if to render thanks for the favourwith which the public regarded him; then he extended them, waving themslowly beyond the window as if to entreat a little space; and now againlowering them politely, as if to request a little silence. When he hadsucceeded in obtaining, in some measure, his last request, those whowere nearest to him heard and repeated his words:--"Bread, abundance. Icome to do justice; a little space, if you please." Then, as if stifledand suffocated with the press, and the continual buzzing of so manyvoices, he threw himself back in the carriage, and with difficultydrawing a long breath, said to himself, "_Por mi vida, que degente_."[5]

[5]: Upon my life, what a multitude.

"Long live Ferrer; there is no occasion for fear; you are a brave man.Bread! bread!"

"Yes, bread, bread," replied Ferrer, "in abundance! _I_ promise you, Ido," placing his hand on his heart. "Clear a passage for me," added he,then, in the loudest voice he could command; "I come to carry him toprison, to inflict on him a just punishment;" and he added, in a verylow tone, "_Si esta culpable_."[6] Then leaning forward to the coachman,he said hastily, "_Adelante, Pedro, si puedes_."[7]

[6] If he is guilty.

[7] Go on, Pedro, if you can.

The coachman smiled also on the people with an affected politeness, asif he were some great personage; and, with ineffable grace, he waved thewhip slowly from right to left, as if requesting his inconvenientneighbours to retire a little on either side. "Be so kind, gentlemen,"said he, "a little space, ever so little, just enough to let us pass."

Meanwhile the most active and officious employed themselves in preparingthe passage so politely requested. Some made the crowd retire frombefore the horses with good words, placing their hands on their breast,

and pushing them gently, "There, there, a little space, gentlemen."Others pursued the same plan at the sides of the carriage, so that itmight pass on without damage to those who surrounded it; which wouldhave subjected the popularity of Antonio Ferrer to great hazard. Renzo,after having been occupied for a few moments in admiring the respectableold man, a little disturbed by vexation, overwhelmed with fatigue, butanimated by solicitude, embellished, so to speak, by the hope ofwresting a fellow-creature from the pains of death,--Renzo, I say, threwaway all idea of retreat. He resolved to assist Ferrer in every way thatlay in his power, and not to abandon him until he had accomplished hisdesigns. He united with the others to free the way, and he was certainlynot one of the least active or industrious. A passage was opened. "Comeon, come on," said a number of them to the coachman, retiring in frontof the crowd to maintain the passage clear. "_Adelante, presto, conjuicio_[8]," said his master also to him, and the carriage movedforward. In the midst of the salutes which he lavished promiscuously onthe public, Ferrer, with a smile of intelligence, bestowed particularthanks upon those whom he beheld busily employed for him; more than oneof these smiles was directed to Renzo, who, in truth, deserved themrichly, serving the high chancellor on this day with more devoted zealthan the most intrepid of his secretaries. The young mountaineer wasdelighted with his condescension, and proud of the honour of having, ashe thought, formed a friendship with Antonio Ferrer.

[8] On, on, but be careful.

The carriage, once in motion, continued its way with more or lessslowness, and not without being frequently brought to a full stop. Thespace to be traversed was short, but, with respect to the time itoccupied, it would have appeared interminable, even to one not governedby the holy motive of Ferrer. The people thronged around the carriage,to right and left, as dolphins around a vessel, hurried forward by atempest. The noise was more piercing and discordant than that of atempest itself. Ferrer continued to speak to the populace the wholelength of the way. "Yes, gentlemen, bread in abundance. I will conducthim to prison; he shall be punished--_si esta culpable_.[9] Yes, yes, Iwill order it so; bread shall be cheap. _Asi es._ So it shall, I mean.The king our master does not wish his faithful subjects to suffer fromhunger. _Oh, oh! guardaos._[10] Take care that we do not hurt you,gentlemen, _Pedro, adelante, con juicio._[11] Abundance! abundance! alittle space, for the love of Heaven! Bread, bread! To prison! toprison! What do you want?" demanded he of a man who had thrust himselfpartly within the window to howl at him some advice, or petition, orapplause, no matter what; but he, without having heard the question, hadbeen drawn back by another, who saw him in danger of being crushed bythe wheel. Amidst all this clamour, Ferrer at last gained the house,thanks to his kind auxiliaries.

[9] If he is guilty.

[10] Oh, oh! take care.

[11] On, Pedro, but be careful.

Those who had stationed themselves there had equally laboured to procurethe desired result, and had succeeded in dividing the crowd in two, andkeeping them back, so that between the door and the carriage there

should be an empty space, however small. Renzo, who in acting as a scoutand a guide had arrived with the carriage, was able to find a place,whence he could, by making a rampart of his powerful shoulders, seedistinctly all that passed.

Ferrer breathed again on seeing the place free, and the door still shut,or, to speak more correctly, not yet open. However, the hinges werenearly torn from their fastenings, and the panels shivered in manypieces; so that an opening was made, through which it could be seen thatwhat held it together was the bolt, which, however, was almost twistedfrom its socket. Through this breach some one cried to those within toopen the door, another ran to let down the steps of the carriage, andthe old man descended from it, leaning on the arm of this benevolentperson.

The crowd pressed forward to behold him: curiosity and general attentioncaused a moment's silence. Ferrer stopped an instant on the steps,turned towards them, and putting his hand to his heart, said, "Bread andjustice." Clothed in his toga, with head erect, and step assured, hecontinued to descend, amid the loud applause that rent the skies.

In the mean while the people of the house had opened the door, so as topermit the entrance of so desired a guest; taking care, however, tocontract the opening to the space his body would occupy. "Quick, quick!"said he, "open, so that I may enter; and you, brave men, keep back thepeople, do not let them come behind me--for the love of Heaven! Open away for us, presently.--Eh! eh! gentlemen, one moment," said he to thepeople of the house; "softly with this door; let me pass. Oh, my ribs,take care of my ribs. Shut now--no, my gown, my gown!" It would haveremained caught within the door if Ferrer had not hastily withdrawn it.

The doors, closed in the best manner they could be, were neverthelesssupported with bars from within. On the outside, those who hadconstituted themselves the bodyguard of Ferrer worked with theirshoulders, their arms, and their voice to keep the place empty, prayingfrom the bottom of their hearts that they would be expeditious.

"Quick, quick!" said Ferrer, as he reached the portico, to the servantswho surrounded him, crying, "May your excellency be rewarded! Whatgoodness! Great God, what goodness!"

"Quick, quick," repeated Ferrer, "where is this poor man?"

The superintendent descended the stairs half led, half carried by hisdomestics, and pale as death. When he saw who had come to hisassistance, he sighed deeply, his pulse returned, and a slight colourtinged his cheek. He hastened to meet Ferrer, saying, "I am in the handsof God and your excellency; but how go hence? we are surrounded on allsides by people who desire my death."

"_Venga con migo usted_[12], and take courage. My carriage is at thedoor; quick, quick!" He took him by the hand, and, continuing toencourage him, led him towards the door, saying in his heart, however,_Aqui esta el busilis! Dios nos valga!_[13]

[12] Come with me.

[13] Now for the difficult point! God help us!

The door, opened; Ferrer appeared first; the superintendent followed,shrinking with fear, and clinging to the protecting toga, as an infantto the gown of its mother. Those who had maintained the space freeraised their hands and waved their hats; making in this manner a sort ofcloud to conceal the superintendent from the view of the people, and toenable him to enter the carriage, and place himself out of sight. Ferrerfollowed, and the carriage was closed. The people drew their ownconclusions as to what had taken place, and there arose, in consequence,a mingled sound of applauses and imprecations.

The return of the carriage might seem to be even more difficult anddangerous; but the willingness of the public to suffer thesuperintendent to be carried to prison was sufficiently manifest; andthe friends of Ferrer had been busy in keeping the way open whilst hewas at the house, so that he could return with a little more speed thanhe went. As it advanced, the crowd, ranged on either side, closed andunited their ranks behind it.

Ferrer, as soon as he was seated, whispered the superintendent to keephimself concealed in the bottom of the carriage, and not to let himselfbe seen, for the love of Heaven; there was, however, no need of thisadvice. It was the policy of the high chancellor, on the contrary, toattract as much of the attention of the populace as possible, and duringall this passage, as in the former, he harangued his changeable auditorywith a great quantity of sound, and very little sense; interruptinghimself continually to breathe into the ear of his invisible companion afew hurried words of Spanish. "Yes, gentlemen, bread and justice. To thecastle, to prison under my care. Thanks, thanks, a thousand thanks! No,no, he shall not escape! _Por ablanderlos._[14] It is too just, we willexamine, we will see. I wish you well. A severe punishment. _Esto lodigo por su bien._[15] A just and moderate price, and punishment tothose who oppose it. Keep off a little, I pray you. Yes, yes; I am thefriend of the people. He shall be punished; it is true; he is a villain,a rascal. _Perdone usted._[16] He shall be punished, he shall bepunished--_si esta culpable_.[17] Yes, yes; we will make the bakers dothat which is just. Long live the king! long live the good Milanese, hisfaithful subjects! _Animo estamos ya quasi afuera._"[18]

[14] It is to coax them.

[15] I say that for your good.

[16] Pardon me.

[17] If he is guilty.

[18] Courage, we are almost out of danger.

They had, in fact, passed through the thickest of the throng, and wererapidly advancing to a place of safety; and now Ferrer gave his lungs alittle repose, and looking forward, beheld the succours from Pisa, thoseSpanish soldiers, who had at last rendered themselves of service, bypersuading some of the people to retire to their homes, and by keepingthe passage free for the final escape. Upon the arrival of the carriage,they made room, and presented arms to the high chancellor, who bowed to

right and left; and to the officer who approached the nearest to salutehim he said, accompanying his words with a wave of his hand, "_Beso àusted las manos_[19]," which the officer interpreted to signify, Youhave given me much assistance!

[19] I kiss your hands.

He might have appropriately added, _Cedant arma togæ_; but theimagination of Ferrer was not at this moment at liberty to occupy itselfwith quotations, and, moreover, they would have been addressed to thewind, as the officer did not understand Latin.

Pedro felt his accustomed courage revive at the sight of these files ofmuskets, so respectfully raised; and recovering entirely from hisamazement, he urged on his horses, without deigning to take furthernotice of the few, who were now harmless from their numbers.

"_Levantese, levantese, estamos afueras_[20]," said Ferrer to thesuperintendent, who, re-assured by the cessation of the tumult, therapid motion of the carriage, and these words of encouragement, drewhimself from his corner, and overwhelmed his liberator with thanks. Thelatter, after having condoled with him on account of his peril, andrejoiced at his deliverance, exclaimed, "_Ah! que dira de esto suexcelencia_[21], who is already weary of this cursed Casale, because itwill not surrender? _que dira el conde duque?_[22] who trembles if aleaf makes more noise than usual? _Que dira el rey nuestro señor?_[23]who must necessarily be informed of so great a tumult? And is it at anend? _Dios lo sabe._"[24]--"Ah, as for me, I will have nothing more todo with it," said the superintendent. "I wash my hands of it. I resignmy office into the hands of your excellency, and I will go and live in acavern on a mountain, as a hermit, far, very far from this savagepeople."

[20] Rise, rise, we are beyond danger.

[21] What will his excellency say to this?

[22] What will the count duke say?

[23] What will the king our master say?

[24] God knows.

"_Usted_[25] will do that which is best _por el servicio de sumajestad_," replied the high chancellor, gravely.

[25] You--for his majesty's service.

"His majesty does not desire my death," replied the superintendent."Yes, yes, in a cavern, in a cavern far from these cruel people."

It is not known what became of this project, as, after conducting thepoor man in safety to his castle, our author makes no farther mention ofhim.

CHAPTER XIV.

The crowd began to disperse; some went home to take care of theirfamilies, some wandered off from the desire to breathe more freely,after such a squeeze, and others sought their acquaintances, to chatwith them over the deeds of the day. The other end of the street wasalso thinning, so that the detachment of Spanish soldiers could withoutresistance advance near the superintendent's house. In front of it therestill remained, so to speak, the dregs of the commotion; a company ofthe seditious, who, discontented with "so lame and impotent aconclusion," of that which promised so much, muttered curses at thedisappointment, and united themselves in knots to consult with eachother on the possibility of yet attempting something; and, to affordthemselves proof that this was in their power, they attacked and poundedthe poor door, which had been propped up anew from within. At thearrival of the troop, however, their valour diminished, and withoutfurther consultation they dispersed, leaving the place free to thesoldiers, who took possession, in order to serve as a guard to the houseand road. But the streets and small squares of the vicinity were full oflittle gatherings; where three or four individuals stopped, twenty weresoon added to them; there was a confused and constant babbling; onenarrated with emphasis the peculiar incidents of which he had been thewitness, another related his own feats, another rejoiced that the affairhad ended so happily, loaded Ferrer with praises, and predicted seriousconsequences to the superintendent; to which another still replied,that there was no danger of it, because wolves do not eat wolves;others, in anger, muttered that they had been duped, and that they werefools to allow themselves to be deceived in this manner.

Meanwhile the sun had set, and twilight threw the same indistinct hueover every object. Many, fatigued with the day, and wearied withconversing in the dark, returned to their houses. Our hero, after havingassisted the carriage as far as was necessary, rejoiced when he beheldit in safety, and as soon as it was in his power left the crowd, so thathe might, once more, breathe freely. Hardly had he taken a few steps inthe open air, when he experienced a re-action after such excitement, andbegan to feel the need of food and repose; he therefore looked upward oneither side, in search of a sign, which might hold out to him theprospect of satisfying his wants, as it was too late to think of goingto the convent. Thus, walking with his eyes directed upward, he stumbledon one of these groups, and his attention was attracted by hearing themspeak of designs and projects for the morrow; it appeared to him thathe, who had been such a labourer in the field, had a right to give hisopinion. Persuaded from all he had witnessed during the day, that, inorder to secure the success of an enterprise, it was only necessary togain the co-operation of the populace, "Gentlemen," cried he, in a toneof exordium, "allow me to offer my humble opinion. My humble opinion isthis; it is not only in the matter of bread that iniquity is practised:and since we have discovered to-day, that we have only to make ourselvesheard, to obtain justice, we must go on, until we obtain redress for alltheir other knavish tricks--until we compel them to act like Christians.Is it not true, gentlemen, that there is a band of tyrants who reversethe tenth commandment; who commit injuries on the peaceful and the poor,and in the end make it out that they act justly? And even when they havecommitted a greater villany than usual, they carry their heads higher

then ever. There are some such even in Milan."

"Too many," said a voice.

"I say it, I do," resumed Renzo; "it has even reached our ears. And thenthe thing speaks for itself. By way of illustration, let us suppose oneof those to whom I allude to have one foot in Milan, and the otherelsewhere; if he is a devil there, will he be an angel here? Tell me,gentlemen, have you ever seen one of these people with a countenancelike Ferrer's? But what renders their practices more wicked, I assureyou that there are printed proclamations against them, in which theirevil deeds are clearly pointed out, and a punishment assigned to each,and it is written, '_Whoever he be, ignoble and plebeian_, &c. &c.' Butgo now to the doctors, scribes, and pharisees, and demand justiceaccording to the proclamation; they listen to you as the pope does torogues: it is enough to make an honest man turn rascal! It is evident,that the king and those who govern would willingly punish the villains,but they can do nothing, because there is a league among them. We mustbreak it up, then; we must go to-morrow to Ferrer, who is a good worthyman; it was plain how delighted he was to-day to find himself among thepoor; how he tried to hear what was said to him, and how kindly heanswered them. We must go, then, to Ferrer, and inform him how thingsare situated; and I, for my part, can tell him something that willastonish him; I, who have seen with my own eyes a proclamation, withever so many coats of arms at the head of it, and which had been made bythree of the rulers; their names were printed at the bottom, and one ofthese names was Ferrer; this I saw with my own eyes! Now thisproclamation was exactly suited to my case; so that I demanded justicefrom the doctor, since it was the desire of these three lords, amongwhom was Ferrer; but in the eyes of this very doctor, who had himselfshown me this fine proclamation, I appeared to be a madman. I am surethat when this dear old man shall hear these doings, especially in thecountry, he will not let the world go on in this manner, but willquickly find some remedy. And then, they themselves, if they issueproclamations, they should wish to see them obeyed; for it is an insult,an epitaph, with their _name_, if counted for nothing. And if thenobility will not lower their pretensions, and cease their evil doings,we must compel them as we have done to-day. I do not say that he shouldgo in his carriage to take all the rascals to gaol--it would need Noah'sark for that; he must give orders to those whose business it is, notonly at Milan but elsewhere, to put the proclamations in force, to enteran action against such as have been guilty of those iniquities, andwhere the edict says, 'Prison,' then prison; where it says, 'Thegalleys,' the galleys; and to say to the various _podestà_ that theymust conduct themselves uprightly, or they shall be dismissed and othersput in their place, and then, as I say, we will be there also to lend ahelping hand, and to command the doctors to listen to the poor, and talkreasonably. Am I not right, gentlemen?"

Renzo had spoken so vehemently, that he had attracted the attention ofthe assembly, and, dropping by degrees all other discourse, they had allbecome his listeners. A confused clamour of applause, a "bravo!certainly! assuredly! he is right, it is but too true," followed hisharangue. Critics, however, were not wanting. "It is a pretty thing,indeed," said one, "to listen to a mountaineer! they are all lawyers!"and he turned on his heel.

"Now," muttered another, "every barefooted fellow will give his opinion,and with this rage for meddling, we shall at last not have bread at alow price, and that is all that disturbs us." Compliments, however, wereall that reached the ears of Renzo; they seized his hands, andexclaimed,--

"We will see you again to-morrow."

"Where?"

"On the square of the cathedral."

"Yes, very well. And something shall be done, something shall be done."

"Which of these good gentlemen will show me an inn, where I may obtainrefreshment and repose for the night?" said Renzo.

"I am the one for your service, worthy youth," said one, who hadlistened to the sermon very attentively, but had not yet opened hismouth; "I know an inn, that will suit you exactly; I will recommend youto the keeper, who is my friend, and moreover a very honest man."

"Near by?"

"Not very far off."

The assembly dissolved; and Renzo, after many shakes of the hand, frompersons unknown, followed his guide, adding many thanks for hiscourtesy.

"It is nothing, it is nothing," said he; "one hand washes the other, andboth the face. We ought to oblige our neighbour." As they walked along,he put many questions to Renzo, by way of discourse.

"It is not from curiosity, nor to meddle with your affairs, but youappear to be fatigued. From what country do you come?"

"All the way from Lecco, all the way from Lecco."

"All the way from Lecco! Are you from Lecco?"

"From Lecco; that is to say, from the province."

"Poor youth! From what I have understood of your discourse, it appearsyou have been hardly treated."

"Ah! my dear and worthy man, I have been obliged to use much skill inspeaking, not to make the public acquainted with my affairs; but--it isenough that they will one day be known, and then---- But I see here asign, and, by my faith, I don't wish to go farther."

"No, no; come to the place I told you of, it is but a short distanceoff. You will not be well accommodated here."

"Oh yes. I am not a gentleman accustomed to delicacies; any thing tosatisfy my hunger; and a little straw will answer my purpose: that whichI have most at heart is to find them both very soon, under Providence!"

And he entered a large gate, from which hung a sign of the _Full Moon_.

"Well, I will conduct you here, since you desire it," said the unknown;and Renzo followed him.

"There is no necessity for troubling you longer," replied Renzo; "but,"he added, "do me the favour to go in, and take a glass with me."

"I accept your obliging offer," said he; and preceding Renzo as beingmore accustomed to the house, he entered a little court-yard,approached a glass door, and opening it, advanced into the kitchen withhis companion.

It was lighted by two lamps suspended from the beam of the ceiling. Manypeople, all busy, were seated on benches which surrounded a narrowtable, occupying almost all one side of the apartment; at intervalsnapkins were spread, and dishes of meat; cards played, and dice thrown;and bottles and wine-glasses amid them all. _Berlinghe_, _reali_, and_parpagliole_[26], were also scattered in profusion over the table,which, could they have spoken, would probably have said, "We were thismorning in a baker's counter, or in the pocket of some spectator of thetumult, who, occupied with public affairs, neglected the care of privateaffairs." The confusion was great; a boy ran to and fro busily engagedin attending to the dinner and gaming tables; the host was seated on alow bench under the mantle-tree of the chimney, apparently occupied intracing figures in the ashes with the tongs, but in reality deeplyattentive to all that passed around him. He raised his head at the soundof the latch, and turned towards the new comers. When he saw the guide,"Curse the fellow," said he to himself, "he must always be under myfeet, when I wish him at the devil!" Casting a rapid glance towardsRenzo, he continued, "I know you not; but if you come with such ahunter, you are either a dog or a hare. When you shall have spoken a fewwords, I shall know which of the two you are."

[26] Different coins.

Nothing of this mute soliloquy could be traced, however, in thecountenance of the host, who was motionless as a statue: his eyes weresmall and without expression, his face fat and shining, and his shortand thick beard of a reddish hue.

"What are your orders, gentlemen?" said he.

"First, a good flagon of wine," said Renzo, "and then something to eat."So saying, he threw himself on a bench at one end of the table, anduttered a loud and sonorous _Ah!_ as if to say, "It is a good thing tosit down after having been so long on one's feet." But recollecting thetable at which he had been seated the evening before with Agnes andLucy, he sighed deeply. The host brought the wine; his companion hadseated himself opposite to him; Renzo filled a glass for him, saying,"To wet your lips," and another for himself, which he swallowed at adraught.

"What can you give me to eat?" said he, addressing the host.

"A good piece of stewed meat," replied he.

"Well, sir, a good piece of stewed meat."

"You shall be served immediately," said the host, and calling to theboy, "Serve this gentleman. But," resumed he, turning again to Renzo, "Ihave no bread to-day."

"As for bread," said Renzo, in a loud voice, and laughing, "Providencehas provided that." And he drew forth the third and last loaf, picked upunder the cross of _St. Dionigi_, and holding it up, cried, "Here is thebread of Providence!"

At this exclamation many of the company turned round, and seeing thistrophy in the air, one of them cried, "Bread for ever at a low price!"

"At a low price!" said Renzo; "_gratis et amore_."

"Better still, better still."

"But," added he, "I do not wish these gentlemen to think evil of me. Ihave not stolen it--I found it on the ground; and if I could find theowner, I am ready to pay him."

"Bravo, bravo!" cried they, laughing louder still, not imagining that hewas in earnest.

"They think that I jest, but it is really so," said Renzo to his guide,and turning the bread in his hand; "see how they have formed it--youwould call it a cake, but they were so packed one on the other. If therewere any with the crust a little tender, one might know they werefresh." Then devouring three or four mouthfulls of the bread, he washedthem down with another glass of wine, adding, "The bread will not godown alone--my throat was never so dry--a glorious uproar we made!"

"Prepare a good bed for this young man," said the guide; "he is going topass the night here."

"Do you wish to sleep here?" said the host to Renzo, approaching thetable.

"Certainly; I shall be content with any bed, provided the sheets arewhite; for although poor, I am accustomed to cleanliness."

"Oh, as to that----" said the host. So saying, he went to his counter,which was in a corner of the kitchen, and returned, bringing in his handpaper, pen, and ink.

"What does this mean?" swallowing a piece of the stew which had beenplaced before him, and smiling with an air of surprise; "is that thewhite sheet?"

The host, without replying, placed the paper on the table, and himselfin an attitude to write, and with the pen in his hand, leaning towardsRenzo, he said, "Do me the favour to tell me your name and country."

"What!" said Renzo, "what has this to do with the bed?"

"I do my duty," said the host, looking at the guide. "We are obliged to

give an exact account of all who lodge at our house. _Name and surname,and from what country they are; why they are here; if they have arms;and how long they expect to remain in the city._ These are the verywords of the proclamation."

Before answering, Renzo emptied another glass; it was the third, but Ifear for the future we shall not find it possible to count them. "Ah,ah!" exclaimed he, "you have the proclamation. Well, I pride myself onbeing a doctor of laws, and I know what importance is attached toproclamations."

"I speak in earnest," said the host, looking again at the mute companionof Renzo; and returning to his desk, he drew from it a large sheet ofpaper, which he unfolded before Renzo, as an exact copy of theproclamation.

"Ah! there it is!" cried he, quickly emptying the contents of the glasswhich he held in his hand. "Ah! there it is! the fine sheet! I rejoiceto see it. I know these arms; I know what this pagan head means with anoose around its neck." (The proclamations of that time were headed bythe arms of the governor, and in those of Don Gonzalo Fernandez deCordova was seen a Moorish king, chained by the throat.) "This facemeans, Command who can, and obey who will. When the Signor Don----shallhave been sent to the galleys--well, well, I know what I would say--Ihave seen another leaf just like this. When he shall have so takenmeasures that an honest young man can, without molestation, marry her towhom he is betrothed, and by whom he is beloved, then I will tell myname to this face, and will give him a kiss in the bargain. I may havevery good reasons for not telling my name; it's a fine thing, truly! Andif a robber, who might have under his command a band of villains,because if he were alone----" He hesitated a moment, finishing thephrase with a gesture, and then proceeded, "If a robber wished to knowwho I was, in order to do me some evil turn, I ask you if that facewould move from the paper to help me. Am I obliged to tell my business?Truly, this is something new. Suppose, for instance, that I have come toMilan to confess--I would wish to do it to a capuchin father, and not tothe landlord of an inn."

The host kept silence, looking at the guide, who appeared not to noticeany thing that passed. Renzo, it grieves us to say, swallowed anotherglass, and continued, "I will give you reasons enough to satisfy you, mydear host; if those proclamations which speak favourably of goodChristians are worth nothing, those which speak unfavourably are worthless than nothing. Take away, then, all these encumbrances, and bring inexchange another flagon, because this one is broken." So saying, hestruck it lightly with his hand, adding, "Don't you hear how it iscracked?"

The discourse of Renzo had again attracted the general attention of thecompany, and when he concluded, there was a general murmur of applause.

"What must I do?" said the host, looking at the strange companion, whowas, however, no stranger to him.

"Yes, yes," cried many of the company, "this countryman is right; theyare vexatious impositions. New laws to-day! new laws to-day!"

The stranger took advantage of the noise to say to the host, in a toneof reproach for his too abrupt demand, "Leave him to his own way alittle; do not raise a disturbance."

"I have done my duty," said the host aloud, "and secured myself,"continued he, lowering his voice; "and that is all I care for." Heremoved the pen, ink, and paper, and gave the empty flagon to the boy.

"Bring the same kind of wine," said Renzo, "for it suits my tasteexactly; and we will send it to sleep with the other, without asking itsname, surname, nor what is its business, nor whether it is going toremain long in this city."

"Of the same kind," said the host to the boy, giving him the flagon, andreturning to his seat by the chimney. "He is no other than a hare,"thought he, raking in the ashes. "And in what hands art thou fallen,poor silly youth! If you will drown, drown; but the host of the _FullMoon_ will not go halves with thy folly."

Renzo returned thanks to his guide, and to all those who had taken hisside. "Worthy friends," said he, "I know that honest people support eachother." Then striking the table, and placing himself in the attitude ofan orator, "Is it not an unheard of thing," cried he, "that those whogovern must always introduce paper, pen, and ink? Always the pen inhand! Such a passion for the pen!"

"Eh! young and worthy stranger! would you know the reason?" said one ofthe gamesters, laughing.

"Let us hear it," replied Renzo.

"The reason is, as these lords eat geese, they have so many quills, theyknow not what to do with them."

"Oh, oh!" said Renzo, "you are a poet! You have poets here, then? I havealso a vein for poetry, and I sometimes make verses--but it is whenthings go on well."

To comprehend this witticism of poor Renzo, it is necessary to beinformed, that in the eyes of the vulgar of Milan, and more particularlyin its environs, the name of poet did not signify, as among cultivatedpeople, a sublime genius, an inhabitant of Pindus, a pupil of the muses,but a whimsicality and eccentricity in discourse and conduct, which hadmore of singularity than sense; and an absurd wresting of words fromtheir legitimate signification.

"But I will tell the true reason," added Renzo, "it is because theythemselves hold the pen, and, therefore, they do not record their ownwords; but let a poor man speak, they are very attentive, and in amoment, _there_ it is, in black and white for some future occasion. Theyare cunning, also; and when they want to perplex a poor youth, who doesnot know how to read, but who has a little----I know well----" beatinghis forehead with his hand, and pointing to it with his finger, to makehimself understood; "and when they perceive that he begins to comprehendthe difficulty, they throw into the conversation some Latin, to make himlose the thread of their argument, to put him at his wits' end, toconfuse his brains. This custom must be broken up: to-day, every thing

has been done after the people's fashion, without paper, pen, and ink.To-morrow, if they know how to conduct themselves, we shall do stillbetter, without hurting a hair of any one's head; all in the way ofjustice."

In the mean while some of the company had engaged again in play, andsome in eating; some went away, others came in their place. The unknownguide continued to remain; and without appearing to have any business todetain him, lingered to talk a little more with Renzo, and resumed theconversation about bread.

"If I had the control, I would order things better," said he.

"What would you do?" said Renzo, endeavouring to exhibit everyappearance of attention.

"What would I do? Every one should have bread--the poor as well as therich."

"Ah! that is right."

"See how I would do. I would fix a reasonable rate within the ability ofevery one; then bread should be distributed according to the number ofmouths, because there are gluttons who seize all they can get forthemselves, and leave the poor still in want. We must then divide it.And how shall we do this? Why in this way. Give a ticket to every familyin proportion to the mouths, to authorise them to get bread from thebakers. For example: they give me a ticket expressed in this manner;Ambrose Fusella, by trade a sword cutler, with a wife and four children,all old enough to eat bread (mind that); he must be furnished with somuch bread at such a price. But the thing must be done in order, alwayswith regard to the number of mouths. For instance, they should give youa ticket for--your name?"

"Lorenzo Tramaglino," said the young man, who, enchanted with theproject, did not reflect that it all depended on pen, ink, and paper;and that the first point towards its success was to collect the names ofthe persons to be served.

"Very well," said the unknown; "but have you a wife and children?"

"I ought to have--children, no--not yet--but a wife--if people had actedas their duty required----"

"Ah, you are single! then have patience; they will only give you asmaller portion."

"That is but just. But if soon, as I hope--by the help of God--enough;suppose I have a wife."

"Then the ticket must be changed, and the portion increased, as I havesaid, according to the mouths," replied the unknown, rising.

"That would be very good," cried Renzo, thumping the table with hisfist; "and why don't they make such a law?"

"How can I tell you? meanwhile I wish you a good night, as my wife and

children must have been expecting me this long while."

"Another drop, another drop," filling his glass, and endeavouring toforce him to sit down again; "another drop!"

But his friend contrived to disengage himself; and leaving Renzo,pouring forth a torrent of entreaties and reproaches, he departed. Renzocontinued to talk until he was in the street, and then fell back on hisseat. He looked at the glass which he had filled to the brim; and seeingthe boy pass before the table, he beckoned to him, as if he hadsomething particular to communicate. He pointed to the glass, and with atone of solemnity said, "See there! I prepared it for that worthy man;you see it is full, as it should be for a friend; but he would not haveit. Sometimes people have singular ideas; however, I have shown my goodwill; but now, since the thing is done, it must not be lost." So saying,he emptied it at one draught.

"I understand," said the boy, moving off.

"You understand too, do you? It is true, when the reasons aresufficient----"

Here we have need of all our love of truth to induce us to pursuefaithfully our hero's history; at the same time this same impartialityleads us to inform the reader, that this was his first error of asimilar character; and precisely because he was so unaccustomed tomerry-making did this prove so fatal. The few glasses of wine which heswallowed so rapidly, contrary to his custom, partly to cool his throat,and partly from an exaltation of spirits, which deprived him of thepower of reflection, went immediately to his head. Upon an habitualdrinker it would have produced no visible effect; our author observesthis, that "temperate and moderate habits have this advantage, that themore a man practises them, the more he finds a departure from them to bedisagreeable and inconvenient; so that his fault itself serves as alesson to him for the future."

However this may be, when these first fumes had mounted to the brain ofRenzo, wine and words continued to flow without rule or reason. He felta great desire to speak, and for a while his words were arranged withsome degree of order, but by little and little he found it difficult toform a connected sentence. The thoughts which presented themselves tohis mind were cloudy and indistinct, and his expressions, inconsequence, unconnected and obscure: to relieve his perplexity, by oneof those false instincts which, under similar circumstances, lead men tothe accomplishment of their own ruin, he had recourse to the flagon.

We will relate only a few of the words which he continued to ejaculate,during the remainder of this miserable evening. "Ah! host, host,"resumed he, following him with his eye around the table, or gazing athim where he was not, and taking no notice of the noise of the company,"host that thou art! I cannot swallow it--this request of name, surname,and business. To a peaceable youth like me! you have not behaved well!what satisfaction, what advantage, what pleasure--to put a poor youth onpaper? Am I not right--speak, gentlemen? Hosts should stand by goodfellows. Listen, listen, host, I wish to make a comparison for you--forthe reason----They laugh, do they? I am a little gay, I know; but thereasons, I say, are just. Tell me, if you please, who is it that brings

custom to your house? Poor young men, is it not? Do these lords, they ofthe proclamations, ever come here to wet their lips?"

"They are all water-drinkers," said one who sat near Renzo.

"They wish to keep possession of their understandings, so as to telllies skilfully," added another.

"Ah!" cried Renzo, "that is the poet who spoke. Then hear my reasons.Answer me, host. Ferrer, who is the best of all of them, has he everbeen here to drink the health of any one, and to spend so much as afarthing? And this dog of an assassin, this Don ----? I must be silent,because I am too much in the humour for babbling. Ferrer, and FatherCrr----, I know, are two honest men. But there are few honest men. Theold are worse than the young; and the young--are much worse than theold. I am glad there was no blood shed, these are things we must leaveto the hangman. Bread! Oh yes, for that I have had many a thrust, but Ihave also given some. Make way! Abundance! _vivat!_ And Ferrer too--somewords in Latin,--_Si es baraos trapolorum._ Cursed fault! _vivat!_justice! bread! Ah, those are good words! We had need of them. When weheard that cursed ton, ton, ton, and then again, ton, ton, ton, thequestion was not of flight; but hold the signor curate to--I, I knowwhat I am thinking of."

At these words he hung down his head, and remained for a time as ifabsorbed by some new imagination; then, sighing deeply, he raised itagain, and looked up with such a mournful and silly expression, asexcited the amusement of all around. In short, he became thelaughingstock of the whole company. Not that they were all perfectlysober, but, to say truth, they were so in comparison with poor Renzo.They provoked and angered him with silly questions, and with mockcivilities; sometimes he pretended to be offended, then, withoutnoticing them at all, spoke of other things; then replied, theninterrogated, and always wide of the mark. By good fortune, in hisfolly, he seemed from instinct to avoid pronouncing the names ofpersons; so that the one most deeply graven in his memory was notuttered. We should have been sorry ourselves if this name, for which wefeel so much love and respect, had passed from mouth to mouth, and beenmade a theme of jesting by these vulgar and degraded wretches.

CHAPTER XV.

The host, seeing that the game was about to be carried too far,approached Renzo, and entreating the others to be quiet, endeavoured tomake him understand that he had best go to bed. But our mountaineercould think of nothing but _name_, _surname_, and _proclamations_; yetthe words _bed_ and _sleep_, repeated frequently in his ear, made atlast some impression, and producing a sort of lucid interval, made himfeel that he really had need of both. The little sense that remained tohim enabled him to perceive that the greater part of the company haddeparted; and with his hands resting on the table before him, heendeavoured to stand on his feet; his efforts would have been, however,unavailing, without the assistance of the host, who led him from between

the table and the bench, and taking a lantern in one hand, managedpartly to lead and partly to drag him to the stairs, and thence up thenarrow staircase to the room designed for him. At the sight of the bed,he endeavoured to look kindly upon the host; but his eyes at one timesparkled, at another disappeared, like two fireflies: he endeavoured tostand erect, and stretched out his hand to pat the shoulder of his hostin testimony of his gratitude; but in this he failed: however he didsucceed in saying, "Worthy host, I see now that you are an honest man;but I don't like your rage for _name_ and _surname_. Happily I amalso----"

The host, who did not expect to hear him utter one connected idea, andwho knew from experience how prone men in his situation were to suddenchanges of feeling, wishing to profit by this lucid interval, madeanother attempt. "My dear fellow," said he, in a tone of persuasion, "Ihave not intended to vex you, nor to pry into your affairs. What wouldyou have had me do? There is a law, and if we innkeepers do not obey it,we shall be the first to be punished; therefore it is better to conform.And after all, as regards yourself, what is it? A hard thing, indeed!just to say two words. It is not for them, but to do me a favour. Now,here, between ourselves, tell me your _name_, and then you shall go tobed in peace."

"Ah, rascal! knave!" cried Renzo, "do you dare to bring up this cursed_name_ and _surname_ and _business_ again?"

"Hush! you fool! and go to bed," said the host.

But Renzo continued to bellow, "I understand it, you belong to theleague. Wait, wait, till I settle matters for you;" and turning to thedoor, he bellowed down the stairs, "Friends! the host is of the----"

"I spoke in jest," cried the host, pushing him towards the bed, "injest; did you not perceive I spoke in jest?"

"Ah, in jest; now you talk reasonably. Since you said it in jest--theyare just the thing to make a jest of----." And he fell on the bed."Undress yourself quickly," said the host; and adding his assistance tohis advice, the thought occurred to him, to ascertain if there were anymoney in Renzo's pockets, as on the morrow it would fall into hands fromwhich an innkeeper would have but little chance of recovering it; hetherefore hazarded another attempt, saying to Renzo, "You are an honestyouth, are you not?"

"Yes, an honest youth," replied Renzo, still endeavouring to rid himselfof his clothes.

"Well, settle this little account with me now, because to-morrow I amobliged to leave home on business."

"That's right," said Renzo "I am honest. But the money--we must find themoney----!"

"Here it is," said the host; and calling up all his patience and skill,he succeeded in obtaining the reckoning.

"Lend me your hand to finish undressing, host," said Renzo; "I begin to

comprehend, do you see, that----I am very sleepy."

The host rendered him the desired service, and covering him with thequilt, bade him "Good night."

The words were scarcely uttered before poor Renzo snored. The hoststopped to contemplate him a moment by the light of his lantern; "Madblockhead!" said he to the poor sleeper, "thou hast accomplished thy ownruin! dunces, who want to travel over the world, without knowing wherethe sun rises, to entangle themselves with affairs they know nothing of,to their own injury and that of their neighbour!"

So saying, he left the apartment, having locked the door outside, andcalling to his wife, told her to take his place in the kitchen,"Because," said he, "I must go out for a while, thanks to a stranger whois here, unhappily for me;" he then briefly related the annoyingcircumstance, adding, "And now keep an eye on all, and above all beprudent. There is below a company of dissolute fellows, who, betweendrink and their natural disposition, are very very free of speech.Enough--if any of them should dare----"

"Oh! I am not a child! I know what I ought to do. It could never besaid----"

"Well, well. Be careful to make them pay. If they talk of thesuperintendant of provision, the governor, Ferrer, and the council often, and the gentry, and Spain and France, and other follies, pretendnot to hear them, because, if you contradict them, it may go ill withyou now, and if you argue with them, it may go ill with you hereafter;and take care, when you hear any dangerous remarks, turn away yourhead, and call out 'Coming, sir.' I will endeavour to return as soon aspossible."

So saying, he descended with her into the kitchen, put on his hat andcloak, and taking a cudgel in his hand, departed. As he walked along theroad, he resumed the thread of his apostrophe to poor Renzo. "Headstrongmountaineer!"--for that Renzo was such, had been manifest from hispronunciation, countenance, and manners, although he vainly tried toconceal it,--"on a day like this, when by dint of skill and prudence Ihad kept my hands clean, you must come at the end of it to spoil all Ihave done! Are there not inns enough in Milan, that you must come tomine! at least, if you had been alone, I would have winked at it forto-night, and made you understand matters to-morrow. But no; mygentleman must come in company, and, to do the thing better, in companywith an informer."

At this moment he perceived a patrole of soldiers approaching; drawingon one side to let them pass, and eyeing them askance, he continued,"There go the fool-punishers. And thou, great booby, because thou saw'sta few people making a little noise, thou must think the world was turnedupside down; and on this fine foundation thou hast ruined thyself andwould have ruined me; I have done all I could to save thee, now thoumust get thyself out of trouble. As if I wanted to know thy name fromcuriosity! What was it to me whether it were Thaddeus or Bartholomew? Ihave truly great satisfaction in taking a pen in my hand! I know wellenough that there are proclamations which are disregarded; just as if wehad need of a mountaineer to tell us that! And dost thou not know, thou

fool! what would be done to a poor innkeeper, who should be of thyopinion (since upon them the proclamation bear hardest), and should notinform himself of the name of any one who did him the favour to lodge athis house. _Under penalty of whoever of the above-said hosts, tavernkeepers, and others, of three hundred crowns_,--behold three hundredcrowns hatched; and now to spend them well,--_two thirds to be appliedto the royal chamber, and the other third to the accuser or informer.And in case of inability, five years in the galleys, and greaterpecuniary and corporal punishments, at the discretion of hisExcellency._ Very much obliged for such favours, indeed!" He ended hissoliloquy, finding himself at his destined point, the palace of the_Capitano di Giustizia_.

There, as in all the offices of the secretaries, there was a great dealof business going on; on all sides, persons were employed in issuingorders to ensure the peace of the following day, to take from rebellionevery pretext, to cool the audacity of those who were desirous of freshdisorders, and to concentrate power in the hands of those accustomed toexercise it. The number of the soldiers who protected the house of thesuperintendant was increased; the ends of the streets were defended bylarge pieces of timber thrown across them; the bakers were ordered tobake bread without intermission; expresses were sent to all thesurrounding villages, with orders to send corn into the city; and atevery baker's some of the nobility were stationed, to watch over thedistribution, and to restrain the discontented by fair words and theauthority of their presence. But to give, as they said, a blow to thehoop, and another to the cask, and increase the efficacy of theircaresses by a little awe, they took measures to seize some of theseditious, and this was the principal duty of the _Capitano diGiustizia_. His blood-hounds had been in the field since thecommencement of the tumult; and this self-styled Ambrose Fusella was apolice officer in disguise, who, having listened to the famous sermon ofRenzo, concluded him to be fair game. Finding that he had but newlyarrived from his village, he would have conducted him immediately toprison, as the safest inn in the city; but in this, as we have seen, hedid not succeed. He could, however, carry to the police certaininformation of his _name_, _surname_, and _country_, besides many otherconjectures; so that when the host arrived to tell what he knew ofRenzo, their knowledge was already more precise than his. He entered theaccustomed hall, and gave in his deposition, that a stranger had come tolodge at his house, who would not tell his name.

"You have done your duty in giving us the information," said a notary,laying down his pen; "but we know it already."

"That is very singular!" thought the host; "you must have a great dealof cunning."

"And we know also," continued the notary, "this famous name."

"The devil! the name also. How do they know that?" thought the hostagain.

"But," resumed the notary, with a serious air, "you do not tell all."

"What is there more to tell?"

"Ah! ah! we know well that this man carried to your house a quantity ofstolen bread--bread acquired by theft and sedition."

"A man comes with bread in his pocket; am I to know where he got it? ifit was on my death-bed, I can say, I only saw him have one loaf."

"Thus it is! you are always excusing and defending yourselves! If wewere to take your word for it, you are all honest people. How can youprove that this bread was honestly acquired?"

"Why need I prove it? it is nothing to me. I am an innkeeper."

"You cannot, however, deny, that this, your customer, had the audacityto complain of the proclamations, and make indecent jokes on the arms ofhis Excellency."

"Pardon me, signor; how could he be my customer, when I never saw himbefore? It was the devil, saving your presence, who sent him to myhouse. If I had known him, there would have been no need of asking hisname, as your honour knows."

"However, in your inn, and in your presence, seditious and inflammatoryconversation has been held; your customers have been riotous, clamorous,and complaining."

"How would your honour expect me to pay attention to the absurditiesuttered by a parcel of brawlers. I attend only to my own affairs, for Iam a poor man. And then your honour knows, that those who are lavish oftheir tongue, are often lavish of their fists, especially when there aremany together."

"Yes, yes, they may have their way now; to-morrow--to-morrow, we willsee if the heat is dislodged from their brains. What do you think?"

"I don't know."

"That the mob will become masters in Milan?"

"Certainly!"

"You shall see, you shall see."

"I understand--I know the king will be always the king; but he who hastaken any thing will keep it. Naturally a poor father of a family has nodesire to give back; your honours have the power; that belongs to you."

"Have you still some people at your house?"

"A number."

"And this your customer, what is he about? Is he still labouring toexcite the people to sedition?"

"This stranger, your honour means; he is gone to sleep."

"Then you have a number? Well, be careful not to let them go away."

"Am I to play the constable?" thought the host, but said nothing.

"Return to your house, and be prudent," resumed the notary.

"I have always been prudent. Your honour can say that I have never madeany disturbance."

"Well, well; but do not think that justice has lost its power."

"I! Good heavens! I think nothing. I am an innkeeper."

"The same old tune. Have you nothing more to say?"

"What else would your honour have me say? Truth is one."

"Well; you have done enough for to-day: but to-morrow, we will see; youmust give more full information, and answer all questions that shall beput to you."

"What information have I to give? I know nothing; I have hardly brainsenough to attend to my own affairs."

"Take care not to let him go away."

"I hope your honour will remember that I have done my duty. Yourhonour's humble servant."

On the following morning, Renzo was still in a sound and deep sleep,when he was suddenly roused by a shaking of the arms, and by a voice atthe foot of the bed, crying, "Lorenzo Tramaglino!" He sat up, andrubbing his eyes, perceived a man clothed in black standing at the footof his bed, and two others, one on each side of the bolster. Betweensurprise, sleep, and the fumes of the wine, he remained a momentstupified, believing himself to be still dreaming.

"Ah! you have heard at last! Lorenzo Tramaglino," said the man in black,the notary of the preceding evening. "Up, up; get up, and come with us."

"Lorenzo Tramaglino!" said Renzo Tramaglino. "What does this mean? Whatdo you want with me? Who has told you my name?"

"Few words, and get up quickly," said one of the men at his side,seizing him by the arm.

"Oh! oh! what violence is this?" cried Renzo, drawing away his arm."Host! oh! host!"

"Shall we carry him off in his shirt?" said one of the officers; turningto the notary.

"Did you hear what he said?" said he to Renzo; "we will do so, if you donot rise quickly, and come with us!"

"Why?" demanded Renzo.

"You will hear that from the _Capitano di Giustizia_."

"I! I am an honest man; I have done nothing; I am astonished----"

"So much the better for you! so much the better for you! In two wordsyou will be dismissed, and then go about your affairs."

"Let me go now, then; there is no reason why I should go before the_capitano_."

"Come, let us finish the business," said an officer.

"We shall be obliged to carry him off!" said the other.

"Lorenzo Tramaglino!" said the notary.

"How does your honour know my name?"

"Do your duty," said he to the men, who attempted to draw Renzo from thebed.

"Oh! don't touch me! I can dress _myself_."

"Dress yourself, then, and get up," said the notary.

"I will," said Renzo, and he gathered his clothes, scattered here andthere on the bed, like the fragments of a shipwreck on the coast. Whilstengaged in the act of dressing, he continued, "but I will not go to the_Capitano di Giustizia_; I have nothing to do with him: since you putthis affront on me, I wish to be conducted to Ferrer; I am acquaintedwith him; I know he is an honest man, and he is under obligations tome."

"Yes, yes, my good fellow, you shall be conducted to Ferrer," repliedthe notary.

In other circumstances he would have laughed heartily at the absurdityof such a proposition, but he felt that this was not a moment formerriment. On his way to the inn, he had perceived so many peopleabroad, such a stirring--some collecting in small quantities, othersgathering in crowds--that he was not able to determine whether they werethe remnants of the old insurrection not entirely suppressed, or thebeginnings of a new one. And now, without appearing to do so, helistened, and thought the buzzing increased. He felt haste to be ofimportance; but he did not dare to take Renzo against his will, lest,finding himself in the street, he might take advantage of publicsympathy, and endeavour to escape from his hands. He made a sign to hisofficers to be patient, and not exasperate the youth; whilst he himselfsought to appease him with fair words.

Renzo meanwhile began to have a confused recollection of the events ofthe preceding day, and to comprehend that the _proclamations_, _name_,and _surname_, were the cause of all this trouble; but how the devil didthis man know his name? And what the devil had happened during thenight, that they should come to lay hands on one, who, the day before,had such a voice in the assembly, which could not be yet dispersed,because he also heard a growing murmur in the street. He perceived alsothe agitation which the notary vainly endeavoured to conceal; therefore,to feel his pulse, and clear up his own conjectures, as well as to gain

time, he said, "I comprehend the cause of all this, it is on account ofthe _name_ and _surname_. Last night, 'tis true, I was a little merry;these hosts have such treacherous wine and, you know, often when winepasses through the channel of speech, it will have its say too. But ifthat is all the difficulty, I am ready to give you every satisfaction.Besides, you know my name already. Who the devil told it to you?"

"Bravo! my good fellow, bravo!" replied the notary in a tone ofencouragement. "I see you are in the right, and you must believe that Iam also. I am only following my trade. You are more tractable thanothers. It is the easiest way to get out of the difficulty quickly. Withsuch an accommodating spirit, you will soon be set at liberty; but myhands are tied, and I cannot release you now, although I would wish todo so. Be of good courage, and come on boldly. When they see who youare--and I will tell--Leave it to me--quick, quick, my good fellow!"

"Ah! you cannot! I understand," said Renzo. "Shall we pass by the squareof the cathedral?"

"Where you choose. We will go the shortest road, that you may be thesooner at liberty," said he, inwardly cursing his stars at being unableto follow up this mysterious demand of Renzo's, which might have beenmade the subject of a hundred interrogatories. "Miserable that I am!"thought he, "here is a fellow fallen into my hands, who likes no betterfun than to prate. Were there but a little time, he would confess all inthe way of friendly discourse, without the aid of rope. Ay! and withoutperceiving it too. But that he should fall into my hands at such anunlucky moment.--Well, it can't be helped," thought he, while turninghis head and listening to the noise without, "there is no remedy: thiswill be a hotter day than yesterday!"

That which gave rise to this last thought was an extraordinary uproar inthe street, which tempted him to open the window and reconnoitre. Therewas a concourse of citizens, who, at the order given them by the patroleto separate, had resisted for a while, and then moved off, on all sides,in evident discontent. It was a fatal sign to the eyes of the notary,that the soldiers treated them with much politeness. He closed thewindow, and remained for a moment undecided, whether he should conductthe enterprise to an end, or, leaving Renzo in the care of thebailiffs, go himself to the _Capitano di Giustizia_, and relate thewhole difficulty. "But," thought he, "he will tell me I am a poltroon, acoward, and that it was my business to execute orders. We are at theball; we must dance, it seems. Cursed crowd! what a damned business!"He, however addressed Renzo in a tone of kind entreaty, "Come, my worthyfellow, do let us be off, and make haste."

Renzo, however, was not without his thoughts. He was almost dressed,with the exception of his doublet, into the pockets of which he wasfumbling. "Oh!" said he, regarding the notary significantly, "Oh! I hada letter, and some money here, once, sir!"

"When these formalities are over, all shall be faithfully restored toyou. Come, come, let us be off."

"No, no, no!" said Renzo, shaking his head, "that won't do: I must havewhat belongs to me, sir. I will render an account of my actions, but Imust have what belongs to me."

"I will show you that I have confidence in you; here they are. And nowmake haste," said the notary, drawing from his bosom the sequesteredgoods, and consigning them, with something like a sigh, to Renzo, whomuttered between his teeth, as he put them in his pocket, "You have somuch to do with thieves, that you have learned the trade!"

"If I get you once safe out of the house, you shall pay this withinterest," thought the notary.

As Renzo was putting on his hat, the notary made a sign to the officers,that one of them should go before, and the other follow the prisoner;and as they passed through the kitchen, and whilst Renzo was saying,"And this blessed host, where has he fled?" they seized, one his righthand, the other the left, and skilfully slipped over his wrists,hand-fetters, as they were called, which, according to the customs ofthe times, consisted of a cord, a little longer than the usual size ofthe fist, which had at the two ends two small pieces of wood. The cordencircled the wrist of the patient; the captor held the pegs in hishand, so that he could, by twisting them, tighten the cord at will, andthis enabled him, not only to secure the prisoner, but also to tormenthim, if restless; and, to ensure this more effectually, the cord wasfull of knots.

Renzo struggled and exclaimed, "What treachery is this? to an honestman!" But the notary, who had fair words prepared for every occasion,said, "Be patient, they only do their duty. What would you have? It is amere ceremony. We cannot treat people as we would wish. If we did notobey orders, we should be worse off than you. Be patient."

As he spoke, the two operators twisted the pegs; Renzo plunged like askittish horse upon the bit, and cried, "Patience, indeed!"

"But, worthy young man," said the notary, "it is the only way to comeoff well in these affairs. It is troublesome, I confess, but it willsoon be over; and since I see you so well disposed, I feel aninclination to serve you, and will give you another piece of advice foryour good, which is, to pass on quietly, looking neither to right norleft, so as to attract notice. If you do this, no one will pay anyattention to you, and you will preserve your honour. In one hour youwill be at liberty. There are so many other things to be done, that yourbusiness will soon be despatched; and then I will tell them----. Youshall have your liberty, and no one will know you have been in the handsof the law. And you," pursued he, addressing his followers in a tone ofseverity, "do him no harm, because I take him under my protection. Youmust do your duty, I know; but remember that this is a worthy and honestyouth, who in a little while will be at liberty, and who has a regardfor his honour. Let nothing appear but that you are three peaceable men,walking together. You understand me!" and smoothing his brow, andtwisting his face into a gracious smile, he said to Renzo, "A littleprudence,--do as I tell you; do not look about; trust to one who hasyour interest at heart! And now let us begone." And the convoy movedforward.

But of all these fine speeches Renzo believed not a word. He understoodvery well the fears that prevailed over the mind of the notary, and hisexhortations only served to confirm him in his purpose to escape; and to

this end to act directly contrary to the advice given him. No one mustconclude from this that the notary was an inexperienced knave. On thecontrary, he was master of his trade, but at the present moment hisspirits were agitated. At another time he would have ridiculed any onefor pursuing the measures he had now himself employed, but his agitationhad deprived him of his accustomed cunning and self-possession. We wouldrecommend, therefore, to all knaves by trade, to maintain on alloccasions their _sang froid_, or, what is better, never to placethemselves in difficult circumstances.

Renzo, then, hardly found himself in the street, when he began to lookaround, and listen eagerly. There was not, however, an extraordinaryconcourse of people; and although on the countenance of more than onepasser-by you could read an expression of discontent and sedition, yeteach one pursued his way in quietness.

"Prudence! prudence!" murmured the notary behind him. "Your honour,young man, your honour."

But when Renzo heard three men, who were approaching, talk of a bakery,of flour concealed, of justice, he began to make signs to them, andcough in such a manner, as indicated any thing but a cold. They lookedattentively at the convoy, and stopped; others who had passed by, turnedback, and kept themselves a short distance off.

"Take care; be prudent, my good fellow; do not spoil all; your honour,your reputation," said the notary in a low voice, but unheeded by Renzo.The men again twisted the pegs.

"Ah! ah! ah!" cried the prisoner. At this cry the crowd thickenedaround; they gathered from all parts of the street. The convoy wasstopped! "He is a wicked fellow," said the notary in a whisper to thosenearest him; "he is a thief taken in the fact. Draw back, and letjustice have its way." But Renzo perceived that the occasion wasfavourable: he saw the officers pale and almost dead with fright. "If Ido not help myself now," thought he, "so much the worse for me;" andraising his voice, he cried, "My friends; they are carrying me off,because I cried, 'Bread! and justice!' yesterday. I have done nothing;I am an honest man! Help me, do not abandon me, my friends."

He was answered by a light murmur, which soon changed to an unanimouscry in his favour. The officers ordered, requested, and entreated thosenearest them to go off, and leave their passage free; but the crowdcontinued to press around. The officers, at the sight of the danger,left their prisoner, and endeavoured to lose themselves in the throng,for the purpose of escaping without being observed; and the notarydesired heartily to do the same, but found it more difficult on accountof his black cloak. Pale as death, he endeavoured, by twisting his bodyto work his way through the crowd. He studied to appear a stranger, who,passing accidentally, had found himself in the crowd like a bit of strawin the ice; and finding himself face to face with a man who looked athim more intently and sternly than the rest, he composed his countenanceto a smile, and asked, "What is this confusion?"

"Oh! you ugly raven!" replied he. "A raven! a raven!" resounded from allsides. To the cries they added threats, so that, finally, partly withhis own legs, partly with the elbows of others, he succeeded in

obtaining a release from the squabble.

CHAPTER XVI.

"Fly, fly, honest man! Here is a convent, there is a church; this way!this way!" was shouted to Renzo from every side. The advice was notnecessary; from the moment that he conceived the hope of extricatinghimself from the talons of the police, he had determined, if hesucceeded, to depart immediately, not only from the city, but thedukedom. "Because," thought he, "however they may have procured it, theyhave my name on their books; and with name and surname, they will takeme again if they choose to do so." As to an asylum, he was determinednot to have recourse to it, but in the last extremity. "Because,"thought he, "if I can be a bird of the woods, I will not be a bird ofthe cage." He then determined to seek his cousin Bartolo in theterritory of Bergamo, who had often urged him to establish himselfthere; but to find the road was the difficulty! In a part of the cityentirely unknown to him, he did not know which gate led to Bergamo; norif he had known it, would he have been able to find it. He thought amoment of asking directions from his liberators, but he had for sometime had strange suspicions with regard to the obliging sword-cutler,father of four children; so that he did not dare openly declare hisdesign, lest, amidst the crowd, there might be another of the samestamp. He determined therefore to hasten from this spot, and ask the waywhen he should arrive at a place where there would be nothing to fearfrom the curiosity or the character of others. He said to hisliberators, "Thanks, a thousand thanks! friends! may Heaven reward you!"and quitting the crowd through a passage made for him, he ran down lanesand narrow streets, without knowing whither.

When he thought himself sufficiently removed from the scene of peril, heslackened his steps, and began to look around for some countenance whichmight inspire him with confidence enough to make his enquiries. But theenquiry would of itself be suspicious; time pressed; the police,recovering from their fright, would, without doubt, pursue theirfugitive; the noise of his escape might have reached even there; and inso great a multitude Renzo might pass many judgments in physiognomybefore he should find one which seemed favourable. After suffering manyto pass whose appearance was unpropitious, he at last summoned courageto address a man, who seemed in such haste, that Renzo deemed he wouldnot hesitate to answer his questions, in order to get rid of him. "Willyou be so good, sir, as to tell me through which gate to go to Bergamo?"

"To Bergamo? through the eastern gate. Take this street to the left; youwill come to the square of the cathedral; then----"

"That is enough, sir; I know the way after that; God reward you!" And hewent on hastily by the way pointed out to him, and arrived at the squareof the cathedral. He crossed it, passed by the remains of theextinguished bonfire, at which he had assisted the day before; thebake-house of the Crutches half demolished, and still guarded bysoldiers; and finally, reaching the convent of the capuchins, andlooking at the door of the church, he said to himself, sighing, "The

friar gave me good advice yesterday, when he told me it would be bestfor me to wait patiently in the church." He stopped a moment, and seeingthat many persons guarded the gate through which he had to pass, he felta repugnance to confront them; and hesitated whether it would not be hiswisest plan to seek this asylum and deliver his letter. But he soonresumed courage, saying, "A bird of the woods as long as I can be. Whoknows me? Certainly the police cannot be waiting for me at all thegates." He looked around, therefore, and perceiving that no one appearedto notice him, and, whistling as he went, as if from carelessness, heapproached the gate. A company of custom-house officers, with areinforcement of Spanish soldiers, were stationed precisely at itsentrance, to keep out persons from abroad, who might be attracted, bythe noise of the tumult, to rush into the city; their attention wastherefore directed beyond the gate, and Renzo, taking advantage of this,contrived, with a quiet and demure look, to pass through, as if he weresome peaceful traveller; but his heart beat violently. He pursued a pathon the right, to avoid the high road, and for some distance did not dareto look behind him.

On! on! he passed hamlets and villages, without asking the name of them;hoping that, whilst he was removing from Milan, he was approachingBergamo. He looked behind him from time to time, while pressing onwards,and rubbing first one wrist, then the other, which bore the red marksfrom the painful pressure of the manacles. His thoughts were a confusedmedley of repentance, anxiety, and resentment; and he wearily retracedthe circumstances of the preceding night, to ascertain what had plungedhim into these difficulties, and above all, how they came to know hisname. His suspicions rested on the cutler, whose curiosity he wellremembered, and he had also a confused recollection that after hisdeparture he had continued to talk, but with whom, his memory did notserve to inform him. The poor fellow was lost in these speculations; thepast was a chaos.

He then endeavoured to form some plan for the future; but all otherconsiderations were soon swallowed up in the necessity which he wasunder of ascertaining the road; and to do this, he was obliged toaddress himself to some one. He was reluctant to name Bergamo, lest itmight excite suspicion: why it should, he knew not; but his mind was aprey to vague apprehensions of evil. However, he could not do otherwise;and, as at Milan, he accosted the first passenger whose appearancepromised favourably.

"You are out of the road," replied the traveller; and directed him to apath by which he might regain the high road. Renzo thanked him, andfollowed the direction, with the intention, however, of keeping the highroad in sight, without exposing himself to hazard by travelling on it.The project was more easily conceived than executed; in pursuing azigzag course, from right to left, and left to right, and endeavouringstill to keep the general direction of the way, he had probablytraversed twelve miles, when he was only six miles from Milan; and as toBergamo, it was a chance if he was not farther from it, than when hebegan his journey. He reflected that this would never do, and he mustseek some other expedient; that which occurred to him, was to informhimself of the name of some village near the frontier, which he wouldreach by crossroads, and asking the way to that, be enabled to avoid themention of this dreaded Bergamo, which seemed to him so likely to causedistrust and suspicion.

Whilst he was reflecting on the best method of pursuing this planwithout awakening conjectures, he saw a green branch hanging from thedoor of a lonely cottage, some distance beyond a village; and as he hadfor some time felt the need of refreshment, he thought he could now killtwo birds with one stone, and therefore entered the humble dwelling.There was no one within, but an old woman, with her distaff by herside, and spindle in her hand. He asked for a mouthful to eat; sheoffered him some _stracchino_[27], and some wine. He accepted the food,but refused the wine; of which he felt an intuitive horror since theevents of the preceding night. The old woman then began to assail herguest with enquiries of his trade, his journey, and of the news fromMilan, of the disturbances of which she had heard some rumours. To herquestion, "Where are you going?" he replied, "I am obliged to go to manyplaces, but if I find a moment of time, I should like to stop awhile atthe village on the road to Bergamo, near the frontier, but in theterritory of Milan--what do they call it?--There must be some villagethere," thought he.

[27] A kind of soft cheese.

"Gorgonzola, you mean," replied the old woman.

"Gorgonzola," repeated Renzo, as if to fix it in his memory, "is it farfrom here?"

"I don't know for certain; perhaps ten or twelve miles. If one of mychildren were here, they could tell you."

"And do you think I could reach there by keeping on these pleasantpaths, without taking the high road, where there is so much dust? such aquantity of dust! It is so long since we have had any rain!"

"I think you can. You can ask at the first village to theright,"--naming it.

"Thank you," said Renzo, carrying off the remains of his bread, whichwas much coarser than what he had lately eaten from the foot of theCross of St. Dionysius; and paying the bill, departed. He took the roadto the right, and with the name of Gorgonzola in his mouth, from villageto village, he succeeded in reaching it an hour before sunset.

He had on his way intended to halt here for some more substantialrefreshment; he felt also the need of sleep; but rather than indulgehimself in this, he would have dropped dead on the road. His design wasto inform himself, at the inn, of the distance from the Adda, tocontrive to obtain some direction to the cross paths which led to it,and after having eaten, to go on his way. Born at the second source ofthis river, he had often heard that at a certain point, and for somedistance, its waters marked the confines of the Milanese and Venetianstates. He had no precise idea of the spot where this boundarycommenced, but, at this time, the principal matter was to reach theriver. Provided he could not accomplish it by daylight, he decided totravel as long as the darkness and his strength would permit, and thento wait the approach of day in a field, among brambles, or any where,where it should please God, an inn excepted. After advancing a few stepsin Gorgonzola, he saw a sign, and entering the house, asked the host for

a mouthful to eat, and a half-pint of wine, his horror of which had beensubdued by his excessive fatigue. "I pray you to be in haste," added he,"for I must continue my journey immediately." And he said this, not onlybecause it was the truth, but from fear that the host, imagining he wasgoing to lodge there, might ask him his _name_, _surname_, and _whencehe came_, and _what was his business_!

The host replied that he should have what he requested, and Renzo seatedhimself at the end of a bench near the door.

There were in the room some idle people of the neighbourhood, who, afterhaving discussed the great news from Milan of the preceding day,wondered how affairs were going on; as the circumstances of therebellion had left their curiosity unsatisfied as to its termination; asedition neither suppressed nor successful; suspended rather thanterminated; an unfinished work; the end of an act rather than of adrama. One of them detached himself from the company, and, approachingthe new-comer, asked him, "If he came from Milan?"

"I?" said Renzo, endeavouring to collect his thoughts for a reply.

"You; if the enquiry be lawful."

Renzo, contracting his mouth, made a sort of inarticulate sound, "Milan,from what I hear--from what they say--is not a place where one would gonow, unless necessity required it."

"The tumult continues, then?" asked he, with eagerness.

"One must have been on the spot, to know if it were so," said Renzo.

"But do you not come from Milan?"

"I come from Liscate," replied the youth, who, in the mean while hadprepared his answer. He had, indeed, come from that place, as he hadpassed through it. He had learned its name from a traveller who hadmentioned it, as the first village on his road to Gorgonzola.

"Oh!" said his interrogator, "I wish you had come from Milan. Butpatience--and did you hear nothing from Milan at Liscate?"

"It is very possible that others knew something," replied ourmountaineer; "but I have heard nothing."

The inquisitive person rejoined his companions.

"How far is it from this to the Adda?" said Renzo to the host, in a lowcareless tone, as he set before him something to eat.

"To the Adda? to cross the river?"

"That is--yes--to the Adda."

"Would you cross the bridge of Cassano, or the ferry of Canonica?"

"Where are they?--I ask simply from curiosity."

"Ah! I name them because they are the places chosen by honest people,who are willing to give an account of themselves."

"That is right. And how far are they?"

"It must be about six miles."

"Six miles! I did not know that," said he. "But," resuming an air ofindifference, "if one wished to shorten the distance, are there notother places, where one might cross?"

"Certainly," replied the host, looking at him with an expression ofmalignant curiosity, which restrained Renzo from any further enquiry. Hedrew the dish towards him, and looking at the decanter the host had puton the table, said, "Is this wine pure?"

"As gold. Ask all the inhabitants of the village, and hereabouts. Butyou can judge yourself." So saying, he joined the other customers.

"Curse the hosts!" said Renzo, in his heart. "The more I know of them,the worse I find them."

He began to eat, listening at the same time to the conversation, tolearn what was thought, in this place, of the events in which he hadacted so principal a part; and also to discover if there were not somehonest man among the company, of whom a poor youth might ask his waywithout fear of being compelled in return to tell his business.

"But," said one, "to-morrow, at the latest, we shall know something fromMilan."

"I am sorry I did not go to Milan this morning," said another.

"If you will go to-morrow, I will go with you," said two or three.

"That which I wish to know," replied the first speaker, "is, if thesegentlemen of Milan will think of poor people abroad, or if they willonly think of obtaining advantages for themselves. You know how theyare. The citizens are proud--they think only of themselves; thevillagers are treated as if they were not Christians."

"We have mouths also, to eat, and to give our reasons," said another ina voice as timid as the remark was daring, "and since the thing hasbegun----" But he did not think to finish his sentence.

"It is not only in Milan, that they conceal grain," said another, with amysterious air--when suddenly they heard approaching the trampling of ahorse. They ran to the door, and recognising the person who arrived,they went out to receive him. It was a merchant of Milan, who, goingfrequently to Bergamo on business, was accustomed to pass the night atthis inn, and as he had almost always found there the same company, hehad formed an acquaintance with all of them. They crowded aroundhim--one held the bridle, another the stirrup. "You are welcome."

"And I am glad to find you all here."

"Have you made a good journey?"

"Very good. And you all, how do you do?"

"Well, well. What news from Milan?"

"Ah! there is great news truly," said the merchant, dismounting, andleaving his horse in the care of a boy. "But," continued he, enteringthe house with the company, "perhaps you know by this time better than Ido."

"Truly, we know nothing."

"Is it possible?--Well, you will hear fine news, or rather bad news. Eh!host! is my bed unoccupied? It is well. A glass of wine, and my usualdish. Quick, quick! because I must go to bed early, in order to riseearly, as I must be at Bergamo to dinner. And you," pursued he, seatinghimself at the table opposite to Renzo, who continued silent andattentive, "you know nothing of the mischief of yesterday!"

"We heard about yesterday."

"I knew that you must have heard it, being here always on guard to watchtravellers."

"But to-day? What has been done to-day?"

"Ah! to-day! Then you know nothing of to-day?"

"Nothing at all. No one has passed."

"Then let me wet my lips, and I will tell you what has happened to-day."He filled the glass, swallowed its contents, and continued: "To-day, mydear friends, little was wanting to make the tumult worse thanyesterday. And I can hardly believe that I am here to tell you, for Ihad nearly given up all thoughts of coming, that I might stay to guardmy shop."

"What was the matter, then?" said one of his auditors.

"What was the matter? I will tell you." And beginning to eat, he at thesame time pursued his relation; the company standing on his right andleft, listened with open mouths and ears. Renzo, without appearing tohear him, was, in fact, the most attentive of all; and ate his lastmouthful very, very slowly. "This morning, then, those vagabonds whomade such a hurly-burly yesterday, met at the points agreed on, andbegan to run from street to street, sending forth cries in order tocollect a crowd. You know it is with such people, as when one sweeps ahouse; the more you sweep, the more dirt you have. When they thoughtthere were people enough, they approached the house of thesuperintendant of provision, as if the atrocities they committedyesterday were not enough, to a gentleman of his character. Oh! therascals! And the abuse they bestowed on him! All invention andfalsehood: he is a worthy punctual man; I can say it, for I know; and Ifurnish him cloth for his liveries. They hurried then towards hishouse--such a mob! such faces! They passed before my shop. Suchfaces--the Jews of the _Via Crucis_ are nothing to them. And theblasphemies they uttered! enough to make one stop one's ears, had it not

been for fear of observation. Their intention was to plunder, but----"

"But?" said they all.

"But they found the street barricadoed, and a company of musketeers onguard. When they saw this ceremony--what would you have done?"

"Turn back."

"Certainly; and that is precisely what they did. But see if the devildid not carry them there. When they came on the Cordusio, they saw thebaker that they had wanted to plunder the day before; and what do youthink they were doing at this baker's? They were distributing bread topurchasers; the first gentlemen of the land were there, watching overits distribution. The mob, instigated by the devil, rushed upon themfuriously, and, in the twinkling of an eye, gentlemen, bakers,purchasers, bread, counters, benches, loaves, bags, flour, alltopsy-turvy."

"And the musketeers?"

"The musketeers had the vicar's house to guard. One can't sing and carrythe cross too. It was done in the twinkling of an eye, I say. Plunder,plunder; every thing was carried off. And then they proposed theamusement of yesterday, to burn what remained, in the square, and make abonfire. And immediately they began, the rascals! to drag every thingout of the house, when one among them----Guess what fine proposal hemade!"

"What?"

"What! to gather every thing in the shop in a heap, and set fire to itand the shop at the same time. No sooner said than done----"

"Did they set fire to it?"

"Wait a bit. An honest man in the neighbourhood had an inspiration fromHeaven. He ran into the house, ascended the stairs, took a crucifix, andhung it in front of a window; took from the head of the bed two waxcandles which had been blessed, lit them, and placed them right and leftof the crucifix. The crowd looked up; there is a little fear of God yet,in Milan, it must be confessed; the crowd retired--a few would have beensacrilegious enough to set fire to paradise itself; but seeing the restnot of their opinion, they were obliged to be quiet. Guess what happenedthen! All the lords of the cathedral in procession, with the crosselevated, and in pontifical robes; and my lord the arch-priest began topreach on one side, and my lord the _penitenziere_ on the other, andthen others here and there: '_But, honest people, what would you do? Isthis the example you set to your children? Return to your homes; youshall have bread at a fair price; you can see, yourselves, the rate isaffixed at every corner!_'"

"Was it true?"

"Can you doubt it? Do you think the lords of the cathedral would come intheir robes and declare falsehoods?"

"And what did the people do?"

"By little and little they dispersed; they ran to the corners of thestreets; the rate was there for those who knew how to read. Eight ouncesof bread for a penny!"

"What good fortune."

"The vine is fine, if its fruitfulness continues. Do you know how muchflour has been consumed since yesterday? As much as would supply thedukedom two months."

"And have they made no good law for us country people?"

"What they have done at Milan is for the city alone. I know not what totell you; for you, it must be as God shall direct. The tumult hasentirely ceased for the present; I have not told you all yet. Here isthe best----"

"What! is there any thing more?"

"Yesterday evening, or this morning, they have arrested some of theleaders, and they have been told that four will be hung. Hardly was thisknown, when every one betook himself home by the shortest road, so asnot to be the fifth. Milan, when I left it, resembled a convent ofmonks."

"But will they really hang them?"

"Undoubtedly, and very soon," replied the merchant.

"And what will the people do?"

"The people will go to see them," said the merchant. "They desired somuch to see a man hung, that the rascals were about to satisfy theircuriosity on the superintendent of provision. They will see instead,four rogues, accompanied by capuchins and friars of the _buonamorte_[28]; well, they have richly deserved it. It is a providence, yousee; it was a necessary thing. They had begun to enter the shops, andtake what they wanted, without putting their hand to their purse. Ifthey had been suffered to go on their own way, after bread, it wouldhave been wine, and then something else--and I assure you, as an honestman, keeping a shop, it was not a very agreeable idea."

[28] Good death. A confraternity which exists under the same name in the south of France.

"Assuredly not," said one of his auditors.

"Assuredly not," repeated the others in chorus.

"And," continued the merchant, "it had been in preparation a long while.There was a league, you know?"

"A league!"

"A league. Cabals instigated by the Navarrese, by that cardinal of

France, you know, who has a half-barbarous name, and who every dayoffers some new affront to the crown of Spain. But he aims chiefly atMilan, because he knows, the knave, that the strength of the king liesthere."

"Indeed!"

"Would you have a proof of it? Those who made the most noise werestrangers; people who were never seen before in Milan. I have forgotten,after all, to tell you something I heard; one of these had been caughtin an inn----"

When this chord was touched, poor Renzo felt a cold shiver, and couldwith difficulty conceal his agitation. No one however perceived it, andthe orator proceeded:--

"They do not yet know whence he came, by whom he was sent, nor what kindof man he was; but he was certainly one of the leaders. Yesterday, inthe height of the tumult, he played the devil; then, not content withthat, he began to exhort, and propose a fine thing truly! to murder allthe lords! Rascal! how would poor people live, if the lords were killed?He was taken, however, and they found on him an enormous packet ofletters, after which they were taking him to prison. But what do youthink? his companions, who were keeping watch round the inn, came ingreat force, and delivered him. The rogue!"

"And what has become of him?"

"It is not known. He has escaped, or is concealed in Milan. These peoplefind lodging and concealment any where, although they have neither housenor home of their own. The devil helps them; but they are sometimestaken in the snare, when they least expect it. When the pear is ripe, itmust fall. It is well known that these letters are in the hands ofgovernment, that they contain an account of the whole plot, that manypeople are implicated, that they have turned the city upside down, andwould have done much worse. Some say the bakers are rogues, and so sayI: but they ought to be hanged at least in a legal manner. Therecertainly is corn concealed; and the government ought to have spies andfind it out, and hang up all that keep it back in company with thebakers; and if they don't, all the city ought to remonstrate again andagain, but never allow the villainous practice of entering shops andwarehouses for plunder."

The little that Renzo had eaten had become poison. It appeared like anage before he dared rise to quit. He felt nailed to the spot. To havemoved from the inn and the village, in the midst of the conversation,would have incurred suspicion. He determined to wait till the babblershould cease to speak of him and apply to some other subject.

"And I," said one of the company, "who have some experience, know that atumult like this is no place for an honest man; therefore I have notsuffered my curiosity to conquer me, and have remained quietly at home."

"And did I move?" said another.

"And I," added a third, "if by any chance I had been at Milan, I wouldhave left my business unfinished, and returned home."

At this moment the host approached the corner of the table, to see howthe stranger came on. Renzo gathered courage to speak, asked for hisbill, settled it, and rapidly crossed the threshold, trusting himself tothe guardian care of a kind Providence.

CHAPTER XVII.

The discourse of the merchant had plunged our poor Renzo intoinexpressible agitation and alarm; there was no doubt that his adventurewas noised abroad--that people were in search of him? Who could tell howmany bailiffs were in pursuit of him? Who could tell what orders hadbeen given to watch at the villages, inns, and along the roads? True itwas, that two only of the officers were acquainted with his person, andhe didn't bear his name stamped on his forehead. Yet he had heardstrange stories of fugitives being discovered by their suspicious air,or some unexpected mark; in short, he was alarmed at every shadow.

Although at the moment he quitted Gorgonzola, the bells struck the _AveMaria_, and the increasing darkness diminished his danger, heunwillingly took the high road, with the intention, however, of enteringthe first path which should appear to him to lead in the rightdirection. He met some travellers, but, his imagination filled withapprehensions, he dared not interrogate them. "The host called it sixmiles," said he; "if, in travelling through by-paths, I make it eight orten, these good limbs will not fail me, I know. I am certainly not goingtowards Milan, and must therefore be approaching the Adda. If I keepon, sooner or later I must arrive there; the Adda has a voicesufficiently loud to be heard at some distance, and when I hear it,there will be no longer any need of direction. If there is a boat there,I shall cross immediately; if not, I will wait until morning in a field,upon the ground, like the sparrows, which will be far better than aprison."

He saw a cross-road open to the left, and he pursued it: "_I_ play thedevil!" continued he, "_I_ assassinate the lords! A packet of letters!My companions keeping watch! I would give something to meet thismerchant face to face, on the other side of the Adda; (Oh! when shall Ireach the beautiful stream?) I would ask him politely where he picked upthat fine story. Know, my good sir, that, devil as I am, it was I whoaided Ferrer, and like a good Christian saved your superintendent ofprovisions from a rough joke that those ruffians, my friends, were aboutto play on him. Ay, while you were keeping watch over your shop----andthat enormous packet of letters--in the hands of the government. See,sir, here it is; a single letter, written by a worthy man, a monk; ahair of whose beard is worth----but in future learn to speak with morecharity of your neighbours." However, after a while, these thoughts ofthe poor traveller gave way to more urgent considerations of his presentdifficulties; he no longer feared pursuit or discovery; but darkness,solitude, and fatigue combined to distress him and retard his progress.A chill north wind penetrated his light clothing, his wedding suit; and,uncomfortable and disheartened, he wandered on, in hopes of finding someplace where he might obtain concealment and repose for the night.

He passed through villages, but did not dare ask shelter; the dogshowled at his approach, and induced him to quicken his steps. At singlehouses near the road-side his fatigue tempted him to knock for shelter;but the apprehension of being saluted with the cry of "Help, thieves!robbers!" banished the idea from his mind. Leaving the cultivatedcountry, he found himself in a plain, covered with fern and broom; andthinking this a favourable symptom of the near vicinity of the river, hefollowed the path across it. When he had advanced a few steps, helistened, but in vain. The desolation of the place increased thedepression of his spirits. Strange forms and apparitions, the birth offormer tales and legends, began to haunt his imagination; and to drivethem away he began to chant the prayers for the dead. He passed througha thicket of plum-trees and oaks, and found himself on the borders of awood; he conquered his repugnance to enter it, but as he proceeded intoits depths, every object excited his apprehensions. Strange formsappeared beneath the bushes; and the shade of the trees, trembling onhis moon-lit path, with the crackling of the dead leaves between hisfootsteps, inspired him with dread. He would have hastened through theperilous passage, but his limbs refused their office; the wind blew coldand sharp, and penetrating his weakened frame, almost subdued its smallremains of vigour. His senses, affected by undefined horrors, appearedto be leaving him; aroused to his danger, he made a violent effort toregain some degree of resolution, in order to return through the wood,and seek shelter in the last village he had passed through, even if itshould be in an inn! As he stopped for a moment, before putting hisdesign in execution, the wind brought a new sound to his ear--the murmurof running water. Intently listening, to ascertain if his senses did notdeceive him, he cried out, "It is the Adda!" His fatigue vanished, hispulse returned, his blood flowed freely through his veins, his fearsdisappeared; and guided by the friendly sound, he went forward. He soonreached the extremity of the plain, and found himself on the edge of asteep precipice, whence looking downward, he discovered, through thebushes, the long-desired river, and, on the other side of it, villagesscattered here and there, with hills in the distance; and on the summitof one of these a whitish spot, which in the dimness he took to be acity; Bergamo certainly! He descended the declivity, and throwing asidethe bushes with his hands, looked beyond them, to spy if some friendlybark were moving on the flood, or if he could not, by listening, hearthe sound of oars cleaving the water; but he saw, he heard nothing. Ifit had been any stream less than the Adda, he would have attempted toford it, but this he well knew to be impracticable.

He was uncertain what plan to pursue: to lie down on the grass for thenext six hours, and wait until morning, exposed to the north wind andthe damps of the night; or to continue walking to and fro, to protecthimself from the cold, until the day should dawn: neither of these heldout much prospect of comfort. He suddenly recollected to have seen, in aneighbouring part of the uncultivated heath, a _cascinotto_;--this wasthe name given by the peasants of the Milanese to cabins covered withstraw, constructed with the trunks and branches of trees, and thecrevices filled with mud, where they were in the habit of placing thecrop, gathered during the day, until a more convenient opportunity forremoving it; they were therefore abandoned except at such seasons. Renzofound his way thither, pushed open the door, and perceiving a bundle ofstraw on the ground, thought that sleep, even in such a place, would bevery welcome. Before, however, throwing himself on the bed Providence

had provided for him, he kneeled, and returned thanks for the blessing,and for all the assistance which had been this day afforded him, andthen implored forgiveness for the errors of the previous day; thengathering the straw around him as some defence against the cold, heclosed his eyes to sleep; but sleep was not so soon to visit our poortraveller. Confused images began to throng his fancy; the merchant, thenotary, the bailiffs, the cutler, the host, Ferrer, the superintendent,the company at the inn, the crowds in the streets, assailed hisimagination by turns; then came the thought of Don Abbondio, Roderick,Lucy, Agnes, and the good friar. He remembered the paternal counsels ofthe latter, and reflected with shame and remorse on his neglect of them;and what bitter retrospection did the image of Lucy produce! and Agnes!poor Agnes! how ill had she been repaid for her motherly solicitude onhis behalf! an outcast from her home, solitary, uncertain of the future,reaping misery from what seemed to promise the happiness of herdeclining years! Poor Renzo! what a night didst thou pass! what anapartment! what a bed for a matrimonial couch! tormented, too, withapprehensions of the future! "I submit to the will of God," said he,speaking aloud, "to the will of God! He does only that which is right; Iaccept it all as a just chastisement for my sins. Lucy, however, is sogood! the Lord will not long afflict her with suffering."

In the mean time he despaired of obtaining any repose; the cold wasinsupportable; his teeth chattered; he ardently wished for day, andmeasured with impatience the slow progress of the hours; this he wasenabled to do, as he heard, every half hour, in the deep silence, theheavy sound of some distant clock, probably that of Trezzo. When thetime arrived which he had fixed on for his departure, half benumbed withexposure to the night air, he stretched his stiffened limbs, and openingthe door of the _cascinotto_, looked out, to ascertain if any one werenear, and finding all silent around, he resumed his journey along thepath he had quitted.

The sky announced a beautiful day; the setting moon shone pale in animmense field of azure, which, towards the east, mingled itself lightlywith the rosy dawn. Near the horizon were scattered clouds of varioushues and forms; it was, in fact, the sky of Lombardy, beautiful,brilliant, and calm. If Renzo had had a mind at ease, he would no doubthave stopped to contemplate this splendid ushering in of day, sodifferent from that which he had been accustomed to witness amidst hismountains; but his thoughts were otherwise occupied. He reached the browof the precipice where he had stood the preceding night, and lookingbelow, perceived, through the bushes, a fisherman's bark, which wasslowly stemming the current, near the shore. He descended the precipice,and standing on the bank, made a sign to the fisherman to approach. Heintended to do this with a careless air, as if it were of littleimportance, but in spite of himself, his manner was half supplicatory.The fisherman, after having for a moment surveyed the course of thewater, as if to ascertain the practicability of reaching the shore,directed the boat towards it; before it touched the bank, Renzo, who wasstanding on the water's edge, awaiting its approach, seized the prow,and jumped into it.

"Do me a service, and I will pay you for it," said he; "I wish to crossto the other shore."

The fisherman having divined his object, had already turned his boat in

that direction. Renzo, perceiving another oar in the bottom of the bark,stooped to take it.

"Softly, softly," said the fisherman. But seeing with what skill theyoung man managed the oar, "Ah! ah!" added he, "you know the trade."

"A very little," replied Renzo, and he continued to row with a vigourand skill beyond that of a mere amateur in the art. With all hisefforts, however, the bark moved slowly; the current, setting strongagainst it, drove it continually from the line of its direction, andimpeded the rapidity of its course. New perplexities presentedthemselves to the mind of Renzo; now that the Adda was almost passed, hebegan to fear that it might not, at this place, serve for the boundarybetween the states, and that, this obstacle surmounted, there would yetbe others remaining. He spoke to the fisherman, and pointing to thewhite spot he had noticed the night before, and which was now much moredistinct, "Is that Bergamo?" said he.

"The city of Bergamo," replied the fisherman.

"And the other shore, does it belong to Bergamo?"

"It is the territory of St. Mark."

"Long live St. Mark!" cried Renzo. The fisherman made no reply.

The boat reached the shore, at last; Renzo thanked God in his heart, ashe stepped upon it; and turning to the fisherman took from his pocket a_berlinga_ and gave it to him. The man took it in silence, and with asignificant look, placed his forefinger on his lip; and saying, "A goodjourney to you," returned to his employment.

In order to account for the prompt and discreet civility of this mantowards a perfect stranger, we must inform the reader, that he wasaccustomed to render similar favours to smugglers and outlaws, not somuch for the sake of the little gain which accrued to him thereby, asnot to create enemies among these classes of people. He rendered theseservices, therefore, when he was sure of not being seen by thecustom-house officers, bailiffs, or spies. Thus he endeavoured to actwith an impartiality, which should give offence to neither party.

Renzo stopped a moment to contemplate the shore he had quitted, andwhere he had suffered so much; "I am at last safely beyond it," was hisfirst thought; then the remembrance of those he had left behind rushedover his mind, overwhelming it with regret and shame; for, with the calmand virtuous image of Lucy, came the recollection of his extravagancesin Milan.

He shook off, however, these oppressive thoughts, and went on, takingthe direction of the whitish mass on the declivity of the mountain,until he should meet some one who could direct him on his way. And nowwith what a different and careless air he accosted travellers! hehesitated no more, he pronounced boldly the name of the place where hiscousin lived, to ask the way to it; from the information given him bythe first traveller he met, he found that he had still nine miles totravel.

His journey was not agreeable. Without referring to his own causes oftrouble, Renzo was affected every moment by the sight of painful anddistressing objects; so that he foresaw, that he should find in thiscountry the poverty he had left in his own. All along the way he wasassailed by mendicants,--mendicants of necessity, not ofchoice,--peasants, mountaineers, tradesmen, whole families reduced topoverty, and to the necessity of begging their bread. This sight,besides the compassion it excited, made him naturally recur to his ownprospects.

"Who knows," thought he, mournfully, "if I shall find work to do?perhaps things are not as they were in preceding years. Bartolo wishesme well, I know; he is a good fellow; he has made money; he has invitedme many times to come to him; I am sure he will not abandon me. And thenProvidence has aided me until now; and will continue to do so."

Meanwhile, the walk had sharpened his appetite; he could indeed havewell waited to the end of his journey, which was only two miles farther,but he did not like to make his first appearance before his cousin as ahungry beggar; he therefore drew all his wealth from his pocket, andcounting it on the palm of his hand, found that he had more thansufficient to procure a slight repast; after paying for which, he wouldstill have a few pence remaining.

As he came out of the inn at which he had rested, to proceed on hisjourney, he saw, lying near the door, two women: the one was elderly,and the other more youthful, with an infant in her arms, which was invain seeking sustenance from its exhausted mother; both were of thecomplexion of death: by them stood a man, whose countenance and limbsgave signs of former vigour; now lost from long inanition. All threestretched forth their hands, but spoke not--what prayer could be somoving as their appearance. Renzo sighed; "There is a Providence," saidhe, as he placed in the nearest hand the last remnant of his wealth.

The slight repast he had made, and the good deed he had performed (forwe are composed of body and soul), had equally tended to refresh andinvigorate him. If, to afford relief to these unhappy persons,Providence had kept in reserve the last farthing of a fugitive stranger,would he leave the wants of that stranger unsupplied? He looked withrenewed hope to the future; he pictured to himself the return ofabundant harvests, and in the mean time he had his cousin Bartolo andhis own industry to depend on, and moreover he had left at home a smallsum of money, the fruit of his economy, which he could send for, ifneeded. "Then," said he, "plenty will eventually return, and trade willbe profitable again; the Milanese workmen will be in demand, and can seta high price on their labour; I shall have more than enough to satisfymy wants, and can lay by money, and can furnish my nice house, and thenwrite to Agnes and Lucy to come--and then--But why wait for this? Weshould have been obliged to live, had we remained at home; we shouldhave been obliged to live during this winter, upon my little savings,and we can do the same here. There are curates every where, and they cancome shortly. Oh! what joy will it be to walk together on this sameroad; to go to the borders of the Adda, where I will point out to themthe place where I embarked, the woods through which I passed, the spotwhere I stood watching for a boat."

He reached at last the village of his cousin; at its entrance, he saw a

very high house, with numerous windows, and perceived it to be a silkmanufactory; he entered, and amidst the noise of the water andmachinery loudly demanded, "if Bartolo Castagneri was within?"

"Signor Bartolo? there he is."

"Signor! that's a good sign," thought Renzo. He perceived his cousin,and ran towards him, exclaiming, "I am come at last!" Bartolo made anexclamation of surprise, and embraced him; he then took him into anotherchamber, apart from the noise of the machinery and the notice of theinquisitive, and said, "I am glad to see you, but you are a drollfellow. I have invited you many times to come hither; you have alwaysrefused, and now choose a most unfavourable moment."

"What shall I say to you? I have not now come of my own free will," saidRenzo; and he briefly, and with much emotion, related the mournfulstory.

"That's another affair truly," said Bartolo. "Poor Renzo! you haverelied on me, and I will not abandon you. To say truth, workmen are notin much demand at present; and it is with difficulty that those alreadyengaged are kept by their employers. But my master regards me, and hehas money; and besides, without boasting, we are equally dependent oneach other--he has the capital, and I the skill, such as it is! I am hisfirst workman, his _factotum_! Poor Lucy Mondella! I remember her as ifit was but yesterday that I last saw her! An excellent girl! always somodest at church; and if you passed by her cottage--I see it now, thelittle cottage beyond the village, with a large fig-tree against thewall----"

"No, no," said Renzo, "do not speak of it."

"I meant to say, that if you passed it, you always heard the noise ofher reel. And Don Roderick! even before I left, showed symptoms of hischaracter; but now, it seems, he plays the devil outright, until Godshall put a bridle on his neck. Well, as I said, we suffer here also theconsequences of scarce harvests.--But, apropos, are you not hungry?"

"It is not long since I have eaten," said Renzo.

"And how are you off for money?" Renzo extended the palm of his hand andshook his head. "No matter," said Bartolo: "I have plenty. Cheer up;things will change for the better soon, and then you can repay me."

"I have a small sum at home, and I will send for it."

"Well, in the mean while, depend on me. God has given me wealth to spendfor others, and above all, for my relations and friends."

"I knew that you would befriend me," said Renzo, affectionately pressinghis cousin's hand.

"Well, what a fuss they have made at Milan," continued Bartolo; "thepeople seem to me to be mad. The report has reached us, but I shall beglad to know the particulars from you. I think we shall have enough totalk about, shall we not? Here, however, things are conducted with morejudgment. The city purchased two thousand loads of corn from a merchant

of Venice; the corn comes from Turkey. Now, what do you think happened?The governors of Verona and Brescia forbade the transit of the corn.What did the people of Bergamo do then, do you think? They sent toVenice a man that knew how to talk, I can tell you: he went to the doge,and made a speech which they say deserves to be printed! Immediately anorder was sent to let the corn pass: the governors were obliged to obey.The country, too, has been thought of. Another good man informed thesenate that the people here were famishing, and the senate granted usfour thousand bushels of millet, which makes very good bread. And then,if there is no bread, you and I can eat meat; God has given me wealth Itell you. Now I will conduct you to my patron. I have often spoken ofyou to him; he will make you welcome. He is a native of Bergamo, a manof an excellent disposition. 'Tis true, he did not expect you at thistime, but when he learns your story--And then he knows how to valueskilful workmen, because scarcity lasts but a little while, and businessmust finally go on.--But I must hint to you one thing; do you know whatname they give to us Milanese in this country?"

"What name they give us?"

"They call us simpletons."[29]

[29] Baggiani.

"That is certainly not a very agreeable name."

"What matters it? Whoever is born in the territory of Milan, and wouldgain his living in that of Bergamo, must put up with it. As to thepeople here, they call a Milanese a simpleton as freely as they call agentleman _sir_."

"They say so, I suppose, to those who will suffer it."

"My good fellow, if you are not disposed to submit to be calledsimpleton, till it becomes familiar to your taste, you must not expectto live in Bergamo. You would always be obliged to carry your knife inhand; and when you had killed three or four, you might be killedyourself, and have to appear before the bar of God with three or fourmurders to answer for?"

"And a Milanese who understands his trade?"

"It is all the same; he would still be a simpleton. Do you know how mymaster expresses himself when he talks of me to his friends? _Heaven hassent me this simpleton to carry on my business. If it were not for thissimpleton I should never get on._ It is the custom."

"It is a silly custom, to say the least of it; and especially as it iswe who have brought the art hither, and who carry it on. Is it possiblethat there is no remedy?"

"None. Time may accomplish it. The next generation may be different, butat present we must submit. And after all, what is it?"

"Why, if there is no other evil----"

"Ah! now that you are convinced, all will be well. Let us go to my

master. Be of good courage."

In fact, the promises of Bartolo were realised, and all _was_ well. Itwas truly a kind Providence; for we shall see how little dependenceRenzo could place on the treasure he had left at home,--the savings ofhis labour.

CHAPTER XVIII.

On this same day, the 13th of November, there arrived a courierextraordinary to the signor _podestà_ of Lecco. The courier brought anexpress from the head of the police, containing an order to make everypossible search for a young man of the name of Lorenzo Tramaglino, silkweaver, who, having escaped from the hands "_of the illustrious headabove cited_," had probably returned to the territory of Lecco. That, incase of his discovery, he should be committed to prison, and an accountrendered to the police of his wicked practices, his ostensible means ofprocuring subsistence, and his accomplices. And furthermore, that anexecution should be put into the house of the above-said LorenzoTramaglino, and every thing taken from thence that might aid in throwinglight on his nefarious deeds.

The signor podestà, after ascertaining as well as he could, that Renzohad not returned to the village, took with him the constable of theplace, and obeyed these injunctions, accompanied by a large escort ofnotary, constable, and officers. The key of the house was not to befound; the door was accordingly forced. The report of this transactionspread around, and soon reached the ears of Father Christopher. The goodman was surprised and afflicted; and not being able to gain satisfactoryinformation with regard to Renzo, he wrote to the Father Bonaventura forintelligence concerning him. In the mean while the relations and friendsof Renzo were summoned to give in their testimony, with regard to hisdepravity of character. To bear the name of Tramaglino became adisgrace; the village was all in commotion. By little and little, it wasunderstood that Renzo had escaped from the hands of justice, even in theheart of Milan, and had disappeared: it was whispered that he hadcommitted some enormous crime, the nature of which remained unknown.The more enormous, however, the less it was believed, for Renzo wasknown by every body to be a worthy youth; the greatest number thought,therefore, that it was a machination of Don Roderick to ruin his poorrival. Thus it is true, that judging from inference, and without theindispensable knowledge of facts, we often wrongfully suspect even thewicked.

But we, who have the facts in our hands, can affirm, that if DonRoderick had no share in creating these misfortunes, he rejoiced in themas if they had been his own work; and made them a subject of merrimentwith his friends, and above all with Count Attilio, who had beendeterred from prosecuting his intended journey to Milan by the accountreceived of the disturbances there: but this order from the police gavehim to understand that things had resumed their usual course. He thendetermined to depart immediately, and, exhorting his cousin to persistin his undertaking, and to surmount every obstacle, he promised to use

his efforts to rid him of the friar. Attilio had hardly taken hisdeparture, when Griso arrived, safe and sound, from Monza, and gave inhis report to his master of all he had been able to collect. He told himthat Lucy had been taken into the convent under the protection of thesignora; that she lived there as secluded as if she were a nun, neverputting her foot without the walls; that she assisted at the ceremoniesof the church behind a grated window; and that it was impossible toobtain a view of her.

This relation put the devil into Roderick, or rather rendered the onemore uncontrollable that sojourned there already. So many favourablecircumstances concurring to forward his designs, inflamed the medley ofspleen, rage, and infamous desire, which he dignified by the name oflove. Renzo absent, expelled, banished, every measure against him becamelawful; his betrothed herself might be considered in some sort as theproperty of a rebel. The only man who could and would take her under hisprotection, the friar, would soon be deprived of the power to do so;but, amidst so many unlooked-for facilities, one obstacle appeared torender them unavailable. A monastery of Monza, even if there were no_signora_ there, was an obstacle not to be surmounted even by DonRoderick. He in vain wandered, in his imagination, around this asylum,not being able to devise any means of violating it, either by force orintrigue. He was upon the point of renouncing the enterprise, of goingto Milan, of mixing in its pleasures, and thus drowning all remembranceof Lucy; but, in place of relief, would he not find there fresh food forvexation? Attilio had certainly told the story, and every one would askhim about the mountain girl! What reply would he be obliged to give? Hehad been outwitted by a capuchin and a clown; and, moreover, when ahappy unexpected chance had rid him of the one, and a skilful friendremoved the other, then he, like a simpleton, abandoned the undertaking!There was enough in this to prevent his ever lifting up his head in thesociety of his equals; or else to compel him to go among them sword inhand! And on the other hand, how could he return and remain in thisspot, where he would be tormented by the remembrance of his passion, andthe disgrace of its failure. How resolve? What do? Shall he go forward?Shall he draw back? A means presented itself to his mind, by which hisenterprise might succeed. This was to call to his aid the assistance ofa man whose power could accomplish whatever he thought fit to undertake,and for whom the difficulty of an enterprise would be only an additionalmotive for engaging in it. But this project had nevertheless itsinconveniences and dangers, the consequences of which it was impossibleto calculate. No one could foresee the termination of an affair, whenthey had once embarked in it with this man; a powerful auxiliary,assuredly, but a guide not less absolute than dangerous. Suchreflections kept Don Roderick many days in a state of painfulirresolution: he received, in the meanwhile, a letter from his cousin,informing him that the intrigue was prospering. After the lightning camethe thunder. One fine morning he heard that Father Christopher had leftthe convent of Pescarenico! Such complete and prompt success, and theletter of Attilio, who encouraged him by his advice and vexed him by hisjokes, inclined him to hazard every thing; and what above all confirmedhim in his intention, was the unexpected intelligence that Agnes hadreturned to the village, and was at her own house! We will relate thesetwo events for the information of the reader.

Lucy and her mother had hardly entered their asylum, when the news ofthe terrible insurrection at Milan spread through Monza, and even

penetrated the walls of the convent. The accounts were various andcontradictory.

The portress, who from necessity went much abroad, heard all the news,and related them to her guests. "They have put several in prison," saidshe; "some were taken before the bakers of the Crutches, others in frontof the house inhabited by the superintendant of provision----But listento this; there was one who escaped, who was from Lecco, or thereabouts.I don't know his name, but I will ascertain it from some one; perhapsyou may know him."

This intelligence, joined to the circumstance that Renzo must havearrived in Milan precisely on this fatal day, gave some uneasiness toLucy and her mother; judge what must have been their feelings, when theportress came again to tell them, "He that fled to avoid hanging is fromyour village, a silk weaver, one Tramaglino. Do you know him?"

Lucy was seated, busy at her work; it fell from her hands; she turnedpale, and her emotion must certainly have attracted the attention of theportress, had she not been too eagerly engaged in delivering her reportto Agnes, who was standing by the door at some distance from the poorgirl. Agnes, notwithstanding she was much agitated, avoided anyexhibition of her feelings. She made an effort to reply, that in a smallvillage every one was known, but she could hardly believe this to betrue of Tramaglino, as he was a quiet worthy youth. She asked if it wastrue that he had escaped, and if it was known where he was?

"Escaped, he certainly has, for every one knows it; but where, no oneknows. Perhaps they may take him again, perhaps he is in safety; but ifyour peaceful youth falls into their hands----"

Here very fortunately the portress was called away; you may imagine thefeelings of Agnes and her daughter! The poor woman and the desolate Lucyremained more than a day in cruel uncertainty, imagining the details andthe probable consequences of this unhappy event. Tormented with vainhopes and anxious fears, their only relief was in each other's sympathy.

At length, a man arrived at the convent, and asked to see Agnes; he wasa fishmonger of Pescarenico, who was going, according to custom, toMilan, to sell his fish; the good Christopher had desired him to stop atthe convent, to relate what he knew of the unhappy affair of Renzo toLucy and her mother, and exhort them, in his name, to have patience andto confide in God. As for him, he should certainly not forget them, andwould seize every possible opportunity to aid them; in the meanwhile hewould not fail to send them news every week, by this or some othermeans. All that the messenger could tell them further of Renzo was, thatit was considered certain that he had taken refuge in Bergamo. Such acertainty was a great balm to the affliction of Lucy; her tears flowedless bitterly, and she experienced some comfort in discoursing upon itwith her mother; and they united in heartfelt thanks to the Great Beingwho had saved them from so many dangers.

Gertrude made Lucy often visit her in her private parlour, and conversedmuch with her, finding a charm in the ingenuousness and sweetness of thepoor girl, and delighted with listening to expressions of gratitude fromher mouth. She changed insensibly the suspicions of Lucy with regard toher into a sentiment of the deepest compassion, by relating to her, in

confidence, a part of her history, that part of it which she dared avow.Lucy found in the relation reasons more than sufficient to explain whathad appeared strange in the manners of her benefactress. She was verycareful, however, not to return the confidence Gertrude placed in her,by speaking of her new fears and misfortunes, lest she should therebyextend the knowledge of Renzo's supposed crime and disgrace. She avoidedas much as possible replying to the repeated enquiries of the signora onthat part of her history, which preceded the promise of marriage; toher modesty and innocence it appeared an impossible thing to conversefreely on such a subject. Gertrude was often tempted to quarrel with hershyness, but how could she? Lucy was nevertheless so respectful, sograteful, so trusting! Sometimes her shrinking and susceptible modestymight displease her, from other motives; but all was lost in thesweetness of the thought that to Lucy, if to no other human being, shewas doing good. And this was true; for besides the asylum she affordedher, her conversation and endearments encouraged the timid mind of themaiden; whose only other resource was constant employment. The nuns, ather solicitation, furnished her with occupation; and, as from morningtill night she plied her needle, her reel, her beloved but now forsakenreel, recurred to her memory, bringing with it a throng of painfulrecollections.

The following week another message was received from Father Christopher,confirming the flight of Renzo, but with regard to the extent or natureof his misdemeanor, there was no further information. The friar hadhoped for satisfaction on this point from his brother at Milan, to whomhe had recommended him; but had received for answer that he had neitherseen the young man, nor received the letter; that some one from abroadhad been at the convent to ask for him, and not finding him there, hadgone away.

The third week there was no messenger, which not only deprived them of adesired and expected consolation, but also produced a thousand uneasysuspicions. Before this, Agnes had thought of taking a journey home, andthis disappointment confirmed her resolution. Lucy was unwilling to beseparated from her mother, but her anxiety to gain more satisfactoryintelligence of Renzo, and the security she felt in her sacred asylum,reconciled her. It was therefore agreed between them, that Agnes shouldwait on the road the following day for the return of the fishmonger fromMilan, and should ask the favour of a seat in his cart, in order to goto her mountains. Upon seeing him approach, therefore, she asked him ifFather Christopher had not sent any message by him. The fishmonger hadbeen occupied the whole day before his departure in fishing, and hadreceived no message from the friar! She then preferred her request, andhaving obtained a compliance with it, bade farewell to her daughter andthe signora, promising a speedy return.

The journey was without accident; early in the morning they arrived atPescarenico. Here Agnes took leave of her conductor, with many thanksfor the obligation he had conferred on her; and as she was before theconvent gates, she determined to speak with the good friar before sheproceeded homeward. She pulled the bell--the friar Galdino, whom we mayremember as the nut collector, appeared to answer it.

"Oh! good dame, what good wind brings you here?"

"I come to see Father Christopher!"

"Father Christopher? He is not here!"

"No? will it be long before he returns? Where is he gone?"

"To Rimini."

"To----?"

"To Rimini."

"Where is that?"

"Eh! eh! eh!" replied the friar, extending his arms, as if to indicate agreat distance.

"Miserable that I am! But why did he go so suddenly?"

"Because the father provincial would have it so."

"And why did they send away one who did so much good here? Oh! unhappyme!"

"If our superiors were obliged to give reasons for what they do, wherewould be our obedience, my good woman?"

"But this is such a loss!"

"Shall I tell you how it has happened? they have probably wanted a goodpreacher at Rimini; (we have them in every place to be sure, butsometimes a particular man is needed;) the father provincial of thatplace has written to the father provincial of this, to know if therewere such a person in this convent; the father provincial returned foranswer, that there was none but Father Christopher who corresponded tothe description."

"Oh! unfortunate! When did he go?"

"The day before yesterday."

"Oh! if I had only come a few days sooner, as I wished to do! And dothey not know when he will return?"

"Why! my dear woman! the father provincial knows, if any one does; butwhen one of our preachers has taken his flight, it is impossible to sayon what branch he will rest. They want him here; they want him there;for we have convents in the four quarters of the world. FatherChristopher will make a great noise at Rimini, with his Lent sermon; thefame of this great preacher will resound every where, and it is our dutyto give him up, because we live on the charity of others, and it is butright we should serve all the world."

"Oh! misery! misery!" cried Agnes, weeping; "what shall I do withoutthis good man? He was a father to us; what a loss! what a loss!"

"Hear me, good woman--Father Christopher was truly a good man, but wehave others equally so; there is Father Antanasio, Father Girolamo,

Father Zaccaria! Father Zaccaria is a worthy man! And you must notwonder, as some ignorant people do, at his shrill voice and his littlebeard; I do not say that he is a preacher, because every one has histalent; but to give advice, he is the man."

"Oh! holy patience!" cried Agnes, with a mixture of gratitude andvexation one feels at an offer containing more good-will thansuitableness; "What is it to me what another man is, when he who is goneknew our affairs, and had every thing prepared to help us!"

"Then you must have patience."

"I know that. Excuse the trouble I have given you."

"That is of no consequence, my good woman; I pity you; if you decideupon asking advice of one of the fathers, you will find the conventstill in its place. But let me see you soon, when I collect the oil."

"God preserve you," said Agnes; and she proceeded homeward, confusedand disconcerted as a blind man who had lost his staff.

Having more information than Friar Galdino, we are enabled to relate thetruth of this affair. Attilio, immediately on his arrival at Milan,performed his promise to Don Roderick, and visited his uncle of thesecret council; (this was a committee composed of thirteen members,whose sanction was necessary to the proceedings of government; in caseof the absence or death of the governor, the council assumed temporarilythe control.) The count, one of the oldest members of the council,enjoyed in it some authority, which he did not fail to make known on alloccasions. His language was ambiguous; his silence significant; he hadthe art of flattering, without absolutely promising; of menacing,without perhaps the power to perform; but these flatteries and menacesproduced in the minds of others an impression of his unlimited power,which was the end and purpose of all his actions. Towards this point helately made a great stride on an extraordinary occasion. He had beensent on an embassy to Madrid! And to hear him describe his receptionthere! Among other honours, the count-duke had treated him withparticular attention, had admitted him to his confidence, so far as toask him in the presence of the whole court, _if he were pleased withMadrid_? and to tell him on another occasion, at a window, that _thecathedral of Milan was the most magnificent church in the king'sdominions_.

After having paid his duty to the count, and presented the complimentsof his cousin, Attilio, with a seriousness which he knew well how toassume, said, "I believe it to be my duty to inform the signor, myuncle, of an affair in which Roderick is concerned, and which requiresthe interference of your lordship to avert the serious consequencesthat----"

"Ah! one of his pranks, I suppose."

"In truth, I must say that the injury has not been committed byRoderick, but he is exasperated, and none but my uncle can----"

"What is it? what is it?"

"There is in his neighbourhood a capuchin friar who sets himself inarray against my cousin, who hates him, and the matter stands thus----"

"How often have I told you both to let the friars manage their ownaffairs? It is enough for those to whom it belongs--but you, you canavoid having any thing to do with them----"

"Signor uncle, it is my duty to inform you that Roderick would haveavoided it, if it had been possible. It is the friar who has quarrelledwith him, and he has used every means----"

"What the devil can the friar have in common with my nephew?"

"First of all, he is known to be a quarrelsome fellow; he protects apeasant girl of the village, and regards her with a benevolence, to saythe least of it, very suspicious."

"I comprehend," said his uncle; and a ray of malice passed over thedepth of dulness which nature had stamped on his countenance.

"For some time," continued Attilio, "the friar has suspected Roderick ofdesigns on this young girl----"

"_He_ has suspected, indeed! I know the signor Roderick too well myself,not to need to be told that he is incorrigible in such matters!"

"That Roderick, signor uncle, may have had some trifling conversationwith this girl, I can very well believe; he is young, and, moreover, nota capuchin,--but these are idle tales, not worth engaging yourattention. The serious part of the affair is, that the friar speaks ofRoderick as if he were a villain, and instigates all the country againsthim----"

"And the other friars?"

"They do not meddle with it, because they know him to be hot-headed,though they have great respect for Roderick; but then, on the otherhand, the friar passes for a saint with the villagers, and----"

"I imagine he does not know Roderick is my nephew."

"Does he not know it? it is that, precisely, which animates him to thiscourse of conduct."

"How? how?"

"He takes pleasure, and he tells it to every one, he takes the morepleasure in vexing Roderick, because he has a protector as powerful asyour lordship; he laughs at the nobility, and at diplomatists, andexults at the thought, that the girdle of Saint Francis can tie up allthe swords, and that----"

"Oh! the presumptuous man! what is his name?"

"Friar Christopher, of ***," said Attilio. The count drew his portfoliotowards him, and inscribed the name.

Meanwhile, Attilio proceeded: "He has always had this character; hislife is well known; he was a plebeian, and having some wealth, wished toassociate with gentlemen, and not being able to succeed, killed one ofthem for rage; and to escape the gallows he assumed the habit of afriar."

"Bravo! well done! we will see, we will see," said the count in a fume.

"Now," continued Attilio, "he is more enraged than ever, because he hasfailed in a project he had much at heart. It is by this that yourlordship can see what kind of a man he is. He wished to have this girlmarried, to remove her from the dangers of the world, you understand;and he had found his man, a fellow whose name you have doubtless heard,because I have understood that the secret council has been obliged totake notice of the worthy youth."

"Who is he?"

"A silk weaver, Lorenzo Tramaglino, he who----"

"Lorenzo Tramaglino!" cried the count. "Well done, friar! Truly--now Iremember--he had a letter for a--it is a pity that--but no matter. Andpray, why did Don Roderick say nothing of all this? why did he sufferthings to go so far, before he acquainted one who has the power and thewill to support him?"

"I will tell you also the truth with respect to that: knowing themultitude of cases which you have to perplex you, he has not beenwilling to add to them; and, besides, since I must say it, he is besidehimself on account of the insults offered him by the friar, and wouldwish to wreak summary justice on him himself, rather than obtain it fromprudence and the power of your lordship. I have tried to cool hisardour, but finding it impossible, I thought it my duty to inform yourlordship, who, after all, is the prop and chief column of the house."

"You ought to have spoken sooner."

"That is true. But I hoped the affair would finish of itself, or thatthe friar would regain his reason, or that he would leave the convent,as often happens to these friars, who are sometimes here, sometimesthere; and then all would have been settled. But----"

"The arrangement of the business now rests with me."

"That is what I thought; I said to myself, the signor our uncle is theonly one who can save the honour of Don Roderick; he has a thousandmeans that I know not of: I know that the father provincial has a greatrespect for him, and if our uncle should think that the best thing forthis friar would be a change of air, he can in a few words----"

"Will your lordship leave the care of the business to him to whom itappertains?" said the count, sharply.

"Ah! that is true," cried Attilio; "am I the man to give advice to yourlordship? But the regard I have for the honour of the family made mespeak. And I am afraid I have committed another folly," added he,affecting a pensive air: "I am afraid I have injured Don Roderick in

your opinion; I should have no rest if you doubted Roderick's confidencein you, and submission to your will. I hope the signor our uncle willbelieve, that in this case, it is truly----"

"Well, well, you two will be always friends, until one of you becomeprudent. Ever in fault, and relying on me to repair it! You give me moretrouble than all the affairs of state!" continued he, with an expressionof grave importance.

Attilio proffered a few more excuses, promises, and compliments, andtook his leave, with a parting injunction from his uncle _to beprudent_!

CHAPTER XIX.

The signor count formed the resolution to make use of the fatherprovincial to cut the knot of these perplexities; whether he would havethought of this, had it not been suggested by Attilio, it is impossibleto determine, inasmuch as he would never have acknowledged this to bethe case. It was important that one of his family, his nephew, shouldnot be obliged to yield in an open controversy; it was a point essentialto the reputation of his power, which he had so much at heart. Thesatisfaction which his nephew might himself take of his adversary wouldbe a remedy worse than the disease. Should he order him to leave hiscastle, when obedience would seem like flying from the field of battle?Legal force could have no power over the capuchin; the clergy wereentirely exempt from secular jurisdiction. All that he could attemptagainst such an adversary was to endeavour to have him removed and thepower to do this rested with the father provincial.

Now the count and the father provincial were old acquaintances; they saweach other rarely, but always with great demonstrations of friendship,and reiterated offers of service.

When all was matured in his mind, the count invited the fatherprovincial to a dinner, where he found a company of choice guests;noblemen, who, by their deportment, their native boldness, and lordlydisdain, impressed those around them with the idea of their superiorityand power. There were also present some clients, who, attached to thehouse by hereditary devotion, and the service of a life, sat at theirlord's table, in a spirit of implicit submission, "devouring hisdiscourse" and his dinner with unqualified and equal approbation.

At table, the count led the conversation to Madrid; he spoke of thecourt, the count-duke, the ministers, the family of the governor; of thebull-fights, which he could well describe, having seen them from adistinguished place; of the escurial, of which he could speak in itsmost minute details, because a page of the count-duke had conducted himinto every nook of it. For some time all the company were attentive tohim alone; then they divided into separate parties. He continued for awhile to relate a number of anecdotes, as in confidence, to the fatherprovincial, who was seated near him. But suddenly he gave a turn to theconversation, and spoke of Cardinal Barberini, who was a capuchin, and

brother to the reigning pope, Urban VIII. As they left the table, thecount invited the father provincial to go with him into anotherapartment.

The noble lord gave a seat to the reverend father, and taking onehimself, said, "Considering the friendship that exists between us, Ithought I was authorised to speak to your reverence of an affair equallyinteresting to us both, and which had best be concluded between uswithout going farther, which might--and I will tell you frankly what itis, as I am certain we shall have the same opinion on the subject. Tellme, in your convent of Pescarenico, is there not a Father Christopher of***?"

The father provincial bowed assent.

"I pray your reverence to tell me, frankly, as a friend,--this man--thisfather--I have no personal acquaintance with him, 'tis true; I know manyfervent, prudent, humble capuchins, who are worth their weight in gold;I have been the friend of the order from infancy; but in a numerousfamily there is always some individual----And I have reason to thinkthat Friar Christopher is a man--a little fond of quarrelling--who hasnot all the prudence he might have: I imagine he has caused yourreverence much anxiety."

"I perceive there is some intrigue," thought the father provincial; "itis my fault; I knew that this holy man should have been sent from pulpitto pulpit, and not have been suffered to remain six months in a conventin the country.--Oh," said he, aloud, "I am truly sorry that yourexcellency has conceived such an opinion of Father Christopher; for Iknow that his conduct in the convent is exemplary, and that he isesteemed by every body."

"I understand very well; your reverence ought----However, I would as afriend inform you of a matter which it is necessary you should know.This Father Christopher has taken under his protection a young man ofthat country, one of whom your reverence must have heard; him whorecently escaped from the hands of justice, on the terrible day of SanMartin--Lorenzo Tramaglino!"

"I had not heard of this," said the father provincial; "but yourexcellency knows that it is the duty of our order to seek those who havegone astray, for the purpose of leading them back."

"That is true; but I thought it best to give you this information,because, if ever his holiness--the intelligence of it may have been sentto Rome."

"I am much obliged to your excellency for the information. However, I amcertain, that if the affair is enquired into, it will be found thatFather Christopher has had no connection with this man but for thepurpose of doing him good. I know the father well."

"Your reverence knows, then, better than I, what he was in the world,and the pranks of his youth."

"It is the glory of our habit, signor count, that whatever a man mayhave been in the world, once clothed with that, he is quite another

person; and since the Father Christopher has belonged to our order----"

"I believe it from the bottom of my heart, I believe it; butsometimes--as the proverb says--The habit does not make the monk."

The proverb was not much to the purpose, but the count had cited it, inplace of another which occurred to him,--"The wolf may change his skin,but he does not become a dog."

"I have certain information," pursued he.

"If your excellency knows positively that the father has committed afault (we are all liable to err), I wish you would inform me of it. I amhis superior--unworthily, 'tis true; but it is my duty to watch over,and, if necessary, correct----"

"Besides the circumstance of his granting protection to the man I havementioned, this same Father Christopher has undertaken to contend--butwe can settle it together with my nephew, Don Roderick."

"Oh, I am sorry for that, I am sorry for that, truly."

"My nephew is young, rash, and not accustomed to provocation."

"It becomes my duty to obtain the best information on the subject. Yourexcellency, with your experience of the world, knows better than I, thatwe are all frail, liable to error--some one way, some another; and ifour Father Christopher has failed----"

"But these are things which had better be settled between ourselves; tospread them abroad would only increase the evil. These trifles are oftenthe cause of numerous embarrassments and difficulties, which might havebeen prevented by some decisive act in the commencement. That is now ourbusiness; my nephew is young; the monk, from what I hear, has still thespirit, the inclinations of a young man; but we, who are advanced inyears, (too true, is it not, reverend father?) must have prudence to actfor the young, and apply a remedy to their follies. Happily there is yettime; we must remove the fire from the straw. An individual who does notdo well in one place may in another; your reverence might see to hisbeing removed, might find a suitable station for the friar at asufficient distance--all may be easily arranged--or rather, there's noharm done."

The father provincial had expected this conclusion from the commencementof the conversation. "I perceive," thought he, "where you would lead me;when a poor friar gives one of you the least umbrage, the superior mustmake him march, right or wrong."

When the count had finished, the provincial said aloud, "I understandwhat the signor count would say; but before taking a step----"

"It is a step, and it is not a step, very reverend father: it is only anatural event, such as might happen in the ordinary course of affairs;and if we do not do it quickly, I foresee a deluge of disorders, amountain of grievances. If we do not put a stop to the affair betweenourselves, it is not possible it should remain a secret. And then it isnot only my nephew--you raise a wasp's nest, very reverend father. We

are a powerful house--we have adherents."

The father bowed in assent. The count proceeded. "You understand me;they are all people who have blood in their veins, and who in theworld--count as something. They are proud of their honour; the affairwill become theirs, and then---- Even those who are the friends ofpeace---- It would be a grief of heart to me to be obliged---- I, whohave always had such a friendship for the capuchins! The fathers, fortheir ministry to be efficient, should be in harmony with all men--nomisunderstandings: besides, they have relations abroad--and theseaffairs of punctilio extend, ramify---- I, too, have a certain dignityto maintain---- His excellency----my noble colleagues---- It becomes aparty matter----"

"It is true," said the provincial, "that Father Christopher is apreacher; I had already the intention--I have even been solicited to doit--but under these circumstances, and just at this time, it might beconsidered as a punishment; and to punish without being wellacquainted----"

"But it is not a punishment; it is a prudent precaution, an honest meansof preventing evils that might----I have explained myself."

"The signor count and myself understand each other very well; but thefacts being those which your excellency has adduced, it is impossiblebut that they should in part be known through the country: there areevery where firebrands, or idle spirits, who find pleasure in thecontests of the monks and the nobility, and love to make malignantobservations. Each one has his own dignity to preserve; and I, in thecharacter of a superior, have an express duty--the honour of thehabit--it is not my own affair--it is a deposit which--and since thesignor your nephew is so irritated, as your excellency has said, hemight take it as a satisfaction offered to him, and--I do not say boastof it, but----"

"You jest, reverend father, surely; my nephew is a cavalier ofconsideration in the world, as he should be; but in his relations withme, he is but a child, and will do neither more nor less than Iprescribe to him. And, moreover, he shall never know it. The thing isdone between ourselves; there is no necessity for rendering an accountto him. Let not that give you any uneasiness; I am accustomed to keepsilence on important subjects. As to the idle talk of others, what canbe said? It is a very common thing to see a friar leave one place to goand preach at another."

"However, in order to prevent malicious observations, it would benecessary, on this occasion, that the nephew of your excellency shouldgive some demonstration of friendship, of deference,--not for us, butfor the order."

"Certainly, certainly, that is but right; it is not necessary, however;I know that the capuchins are highly esteemed by my nephew, as well asby our whole family. But, in this case, something more signal is veryproper. Leave it to me, very reverend father: I will give such orders tomy nephew--that is to say, it shall be prudently suggested to him, thathe may not suspect what has passed between us, because we need not applya plaster where there is no wound. As to that which we have agreed on,

the sooner it is done the better; and if you had a place at somedistance--to remove every occasion----"

"They want a preacher at Rimini; and perhaps without this motive Ishould have thought----"

"That is very opportune, very opportune. And when?"

"Since the thing is to be done, it shall be quickly."

"Certainly, certainly; better to-day than to-morrow. And," continued he,rising, "if I or my adherents can render any service to the good fathercapuchins----"

"We have often experienced the kindness of the house," said the fatherprovincial, also rising, and following his vanquisher to the door of theapartment.

"We have extinguished a spark," said the count,--"a spark, very reverendfather, which might have excited a great conflagration. Between goodfriends, things are easily arranged."

They then entered the next apartment, and mixed with the rest of thecompany.

The count obtained his end: Friar Christopher was made to travel on footfrom Pescarenico to Rimini, as we shall see.

One evening a capuchin from Milan arrived at Pescarenico, with a packetfor the superior: it was an order for Father Christopher to repair toRimini for the purpose of preaching the Lent sermons. The lettercontained instructions to the superior, to insinuate to the friar, thathe should give up every attention to any business he might have on handin the country he must leave, and that he should not maintain anycorrespondence there. The friar, who was the bearer of the order, was tobe the companion of his journey. The superior said nothing that night,but in the morning he sent for Father Christopher, showed him the order,and told him to take his basket, staff, and girdle, and with the friar,whom he presented to him, commence his journey.

Imagine what a blow this was for our good father. Renzo, Lucy, Agnes,passed rapidly over his mind, and he thought, "Great God! what willthese unfortunate people do, when I am no longer here?" but raising hiseyes to heaven, he placed his hope and confidence there. He crossed hishands on his breast, and bowed his head in token of obedience; he thenwent to his cell, took his basket, his staff, and his breviary, andafter having bid farewell to his brethren, and obtained the benedictionof his superior, took, with his companion, the route prescribed.

We have said that Don Roderick, more than ever determined on theaccomplishment of his infamous enterprise, had resolved to seek theassistance of a powerful man. We cannot give his name, nor even hazard aconjecture with regard to it; this is the more astonishing, inasmuch aswe find notices of this personage in several histories of the time. Theidentity of the facts does not leave a doubt of the identity of the man;but there is evidently an extreme care to avoid the mention of his name.Francesco Rivola, in his life of the Cardinal Federigo Borromeo,

speaking of him, says, "He was a lord as powerful from his wealth asillustrious from his birth," and nothing further. Giuseppe Ripamontimakes farther mention of him, as a _man_, this _man_, a _person_, this_person_. "I will relate," says he, "the case of a man, who, belongingto the most powerful family in the city, chose the country for hisresidence; and there, assuring himself of impunity by the force ofcrime, he set at nought the law and the magistrates, the king and thenobles. Placed on the extreme confines of the state, he led anindependent life; he offered an asylum to the outlaw; he was outlawedhimself, and then absolved from the sentence which had led----" We willhereafter quote from this author other passages, which will confirm thehistory we are about to relate.

To do that which was forbidden by the laws; to be the arbiter, thesupreme judge in the affairs of others, without other interest than athirst for power; to be feared by all, even by those who were theobjects of fear to all men; these had ever been the controllingprinciples which actuated the conduct of this man. From his youth he hadbeen filled with impatient envy at the power and authority of others;superior to the greater number in riches and retinue, and to all perhapsin birth and audacity, he constrained them to renounce all competitionwith him; he took some into his friendship, but was far from admittingany equality between himself and them; his proud and disdainful spiritcould only be content with those who were willing to acknowledge theirinferiority, and to yield to him on all occasions. When, however, theyfound themselves in any difficulty, they did not fail to solicit the aidof so powerful an auxiliary; and a refusal from him would have been thedestruction of his reputation, and of the high station which he hadassumed. So that, for himself and others, he had performed such deedsthat not all his own power and that of his family could prevent hisbanishment and outlawry; and he was obliged to leave the state. Ibelieve that it is to this circumstance Ripamonti alludes:--

"He was obliged to leave the country: but his audacity was unsubdued; hewent through the city on horseback, followed by a pack of hounds, andwith the sound of the trumpet; passing by the court of the palace, hesent an abusive message to the governor by one of the guards."

In his absence he did not desist from his evil practices; he maintaineda correspondence with his friends, "who were united to him," saysRipamonti, "in a secret league of atrocious deeds."

It appears that he even contracted new habits, of which the samehistorian speaks with mysterious brevity. "Foreign princes had recourseto him for important murders, and they even sent him reinforcements ofsoldiers to act under his orders."

At last, whether the proclamation of his outlawry was withdrawn fromsome powerful intercession, or that the audacity of the man outweighedall authority, he resolved to return home; not exactly to Milan, but toa castle on the frontier of the Bergamascan territory, which thenbelonged to the Venetian state. "This house," says Ripamonti, "was afocus of sanguinary mandates. The household was composed of such as hadbeen guilty of great crimes; the cooks, and the scullions even, were notfree from the stain of murder." Besides this notable household, he hadmen resembling them, stationed in different places of the two states, onthe confines of which he lived.

All, however tyrannical themselves, had been obliged to choose betweenthe friendship or enmity of this tyrannical man, and it fared ill withthose who dared resist him. It was in vain to hope to preserveneutrality or independence; his orders to do such or such a thing, or torefrain, were arbitrary, and resistance was useless. Recourse was had tohim on all occasions, and by all sorts of people, good as well as bad,for the arrangements of their difficulties; so that he occasionallybecame the protector of the oppressed, who could not have obtainedredress in any other way, public or private. He was almost always theminister of wickedness, revenge, and caprice; but the various ways inwhich he had employed his power impressed upon all minds a great idea ofhis capability to devise and perform his acts in defiance of everyobstruction, whether lawful or unlawful. The fame of ordinary tyrantswas confined to their own districts, and every district had its tyrant;but the fame of this extraordinary man was spread throughout theMilanese; his life was the subject of popular tales, and his namecarried with it something powerful and mysterious. Every tyrant wassuspected of alliance with him, every assassin of acting under hisorders; at every extraordinary crime, of the author of which they wereignorant, the name of this man was uttered, whom, thanks to thecircumspection of our historians, we are obliged to call the Unknown.

The distance between his castle and that of Don Roderick was not morethan six miles. The latter had long felt the necessity of keeping ongood terms with such a neighbour, and had proffered his services, andentitled himself to the same sort of friendship, as the rest; he washowever, careful to conceal the nature and strictness of the unionbetween them. Don Roderick liked to play the tyrant, but not openly;tyranny was with him a means, not an end; he wished to live at ease inthe city, and enjoy the advantages, pleasures, and honours of civilisedlife. To insure this, he was obliged to exhibit management, to testify agreat esteem for his relations, to cultivate the friendship of personsin place, in order to sway the balance of justice for his own peculiarpurposes. Now, an intimacy with such a man would not have advanced hisinterests in such points, and especially with his uncle; but a slightacquaintance with him might be considered unavoidable under thecircumstances, and therefore in some degree excusable. One morning DonRoderick, equipped for the chase, with an escort of retainers, amongwhom was Griso, took the road to the castle of the Unknown.

CHAPTER XX.

The castle of the Unknown was situated above a narrow and shady valley,on the summit of a cliff, which, belonging to a rugged chain ofmountains, was nevertheless separated from them by banks, caverns, andprecipices. It was only accessible on the side which overlooked thevalley. This was a declivity rather steep, but equal, and continuedtowards the summit: it was occupied as pasture ground, and its lowerborders were cultivated, having habitations scattered here and there.The bottom was a bed of stones, through which flowed, according to theseason, a small brook, or a large torrent, which served for a boundarybetween the two territories. The opposite chain of mountains, which

formed, as it were, the other wall of the valley, was slightlycultivated towards its base; the rest was composed of precipitous rockswithout verdure, and thrown together irregularly and wildly. The scenealtogether was one of savage grandeur.

From this castle, as the eagle from his eyrie, its lawless owneroverlooked his domain, and heard no human sound above him. He couldembrace at a view all the environs, the declivities, the abyss, thepracticable approaches. To the eyes of one viewing it from above, thewinding path which ascended towards the terrible habitation could beperceived throughout its whole course, and from the windows andloopholes, the signor could leisurely count the steps of the personascending, and examine him with the closest scrutiny. With the garrisonof bravoes which he kept at the castle he could defy an army, which hewould have crushed in the valley beneath, before an individual couldreach the summit. But none, except such as were friends with the masterof the castle, dared set foot even in the valley. Tragical stories wererelated of some who had attempted the dangerous enterprise, but thesestories were already of times long past, and none of the young vassalscould remember to have encountered a human being in this place, exceptunder his lord's authority.

Don Roderick arrived in the middle of the valley, at the foot of thecliff, at the commencement of the rugged and winding path; at this pointwas a tavern, which might have been called a guard-house; an old sign,with a rising sun painted on both sides, was suspended before the door;but the people gave the place the more appropriate name of _Malanotte_.

At the noise of the approaching cavalcade a young boy, well furnishedwith swords and pistols, appeared on the threshold of the door; andcasting a rapid glance at the party, informed three ruffians, who wereplaying at cards within the house, of its approach. He who appeared tobe the chief among them arose, and recognising a friend of his master,saluted him respectfully; Don Roderick returned the salutation with muchpoliteness, and asked if the signor was at the castle. The man repliedin the affirmative; and he, dismounting, threw his horse's bridle toAimwell, one of his retinue. Then, taking his musket from his shoulder,he gave it to _Montanarolo_, as if to relieve himself from an uselessencumbrance, but in reality because he knew that on this cliff none werepermitted to bear arms. Drawing from his pocket some _berlinghe_, hegave them to _Tanabuso_, saying, "Wait here till my return; and in themean time amuse yourselves with these honest people." Then presenting tothe chief of the band some crowns of gold for himself and hiscompanions, he ascended the path with Griso.

Another bravo belonging to the Unknown, who was on his way to thecastle, bore him company; thus sparing him the trouble of declaring hisname to whomsoever he should meet. When he arrived at the castle (Grisowas left at the gate) he was conducted through a long succession of darkgalleries, and various halls hung with muskets, sabres, and otherweapons of warfare; each of these halls was guarded by a bravo. Afterhaving waited some time, he was admitted to the presence of the Unknown,who advanced to meet him, replying to his salutation, and at the sametime, as was his custom, even with his oldest friends, eying him fromhead to foot. He was tall in stature; and from the baldness of his head,and the deep furrows of his countenance, appeared to be much older thansixty, which was his real age; his countenance and movements, the

firmness of his features, and the fire which sparkled from his eyes,indicated a vigour of body as well as of mind which would have beenremarkable even in a young man.

Don Roderick told him he had come for advice and assistance; that,having embarked in a difficult enterprise, from which his honour did notsuffer him to withdraw, he had remembered the promises of one who neverpromised in vain; and he then related his abominable intrigue. TheUnknown, who had already heard something of it, listened with muchattention to the recital, both because he naturally loved suchrelations, and because Friar Christopher, that avowed enemy of tyrants,was concerned in it. Don Roderick spoke of the difficulty of theundertaking, the distance of the place, a monastery, the _signora_,--butthe Unknown, as if prompted by the demon in his heart, interrupted him,saying, that he took the charge of the affair on himself. He wrote downthe name of the poor Lucy, and dismissed Don Roderick, saying, "In alittle while you will receive news from me."

The reader may remember the villain Egidio, who lived near the walls ofthe monastery into which Lucy had been received; now, he was one of themost intimate colleagues in crime of the Unknown; and this accounts forthe promptness with which this lord assumed the charge of theundertaking. However, no sooner was he left alone than he repented ofhis precipitation. He had for some time experienced, not remorse, but avague uneasiness on account of his crimes; at every new addition tothem, the remembrance of those he had previously committed pressed uponhis memory, if not upon his conscience, and loaded it with anintolerable weight. An undefinable repugnance to the commission ofcrime, such as he had experienced and subdued at the outset of hiscareer, returned with all its force to overwhelm his spirit. Thethoughts of the future contributed to render the past more painful. "Togrow old! to die! and then?" And the image of death, which he had sooften met undaunted, in face of an enemy, and which seemed to inflamehis courage and double his energy--this same image now, in the midnightsilence of his castle, quelled his spirit, and impressed him with an awewhich he in vain endeavoured to resist. Formerly, the frequent spectacleof violence and murder, inspiring him with a ferocious emulation, hadserved as a kind of authority against his conscience; now the confusedbut terrible idea arose in his mind of individual responsibility at thebar of God. The idea of having risen above the crowd of vulgarcriminals, and of having left them far behind, an idea which onceflattered his pride, now impressed him with a sentiment of fearfulsolitude; and experiencing at certain moments of despondence the powerand presence of that God whose existence he had hitherto neitheradmitted nor denied, having been wholly immersed in himself, hisaccumulated crimes rose up, to justify the sentence which was about tocondemn him to eternal banishment from the divine presence. But thisuneasiness was not suffered to appear, either in his words or hisactions; he carefully concealed it under the appearance of more profoundand intense ferocity. Regretting the time when he was accustomed tocommit iniquity without remorse, without any other solicitude than forits success, he made every effort to recall these habits and feelings;to take pleasure in wickedness; and glory in his shame, in order toconvince himself that he was still the same man.

This accounts for the promptitude of his promise to Don Roderick: hewished to deprive himself of the chance of hesitation; but, scarcely

alone, he felt his resolution fail, and thoughts arose in his mind whichalmost tempted him to break his word, and expose his weakness to aninferior accomplice. But with a violent effort he put an end to thepainful conflict. He sent for Nibbio[30], one of the most skilful andresolute ministers of his atrocities, and of whom he had made use in hiscorrespondence with Egidio, and ordered him to mount his horse, to go toMonza, to inform Egidio of the affair he had undertaken, and to requirehis assistance for its accomplishment.

[30] Kite.

The messenger returned sooner than his master expected him with thereply of Egidio; the enterprise was easy and safe; the Unknown had onlyto send a carriage with two or three bravoes, well disguised; Egidiotook charge of the rest. The Unknown, whatever passed in his mind, gaveorders to Nibbio to arrange every thing, and to set out immediately onthe expedition.

If, to perform the horrible service which had been required of him,Egidio had depended only on his ordinary means, he would not certainlyhave sent back so explicit an answer. But in the asylum of the convent,where every thing appeared as an obstacle, the villain had a means knownto himself alone; and that which would have been an insurmountabledifficulty to others was to him an instrument of success. We haverelated how the unhappy signora once lent an ear to his discourse, andthe reader may have surmised that this was not the last time; it wasonly the first step in the path of abomination and blood. The same voicewhich then addressed her, become imperious through crime, now imposed onher the sacrifice of the innocent girl who had been intrusted to hercare.

The proposition appeared frightful to Gertrude; to lose Lucy in anymanner would have seemed to her a misfortune, a punishment; and todeprive herself of her with criminal perfidy, to add to her crimes bydealing treacherously with the confiding girl, was to take away the onlygleam of virtuous enjoyment which had shone upon her mysterious andwicked career. She tried every method to avoid obedience; every method,except the only infallible one, that was in her power. Crime is a severeand inflexible master, against whom we are strong only when we entirelyrebel. Gertrude could not resolve on that, and obeyed.

The day agreed on came; the hour approached; Gertrude, alone with Lucy,bestowed on her more caresses than ordinary, which the poor girlreturned with increasing tenderness, as the lamb licks the hand of theshepherd who entices it without the fold into the murderous power of thebutcher who there awaits it.

"I want you to do me a great favour; many are ready to obey me, butthere is none but yourself whom I can trust. I must speak immediately onan affair of great importance, which I will relate to you some othertime, to the superior of the capuchins, who brought you hither, my dearLucy; but no one must know that I have sent for him. I rely on you tocarry a secret message----"

Lucy was astonished at such a request, and alleged her reasons fordeclining to perform it; without her mother! without a companion! in asolitary road! in a strange country! But Gertrude, instructed in an

infernal school, showed great astonishment and displeasure at herrefusal, after having been loaded with so many benefits; she affected totreat her excuses as frivolous. "In open day! a short distance! a roadthat Lucy had travelled a few days before!" She said so much, that thepoor girl, touched with gratitude and shame, enquired, "What was to bedone?"

"Go to the convent of the capuchins; ask for the superior, tell him tocome here immediately, but to let no one suspect that he comes at myrequest."

"But what shall I say to the portress, who has never seen me go out, andwill ask me where I am going?"

"Endeavour to pass without being seen; and if you cannot, say you aregoing to some church to perform your orisons."

A new difficulty for Lucy! to tell a falsehood! but the signora was sooffended at her refusal, and so ridiculed her for preferring a vainscruple to her gratitude, that the unhappy girl, alarmed rather thanconvinced, replied, "Well, I will go; may God be my guide andprotector."

Gertrude, from her grated window, followed her with anxious looks, andwhen she saw her about to cross the threshold, overcome by irresistibleemotion, she cried, "Stop, Lucy."

Lucy returned to the window; but another idea, the one accustomed topredominate, had resumed its sway over the mind of the unhappy Gertrude.She affected dissatisfaction at the directions she had given; describedthe road again to Lucy, and dismissed her: "Do exactly as I have toldyou, and return quickly."

Lucy passed the door of the cloister unobserved, and proceeding on herway with downcast eyes, found, with the aid of the directions given, andher own recollections, the gate of the suburb; timid and trembling, shecontinued on the high road, until she arrived at that which led to theconvent. This road was buried, like the bed of a river, between two highbanks, bordered with trees, whose branches united to form an arch aboveit. On finding it entirely deserted, she felt her fears revive; shehurried on, but gained courage from the sight of a travelling carriagewhich had stopped a short distance before her; before the door of it,which was open, there stood two travellers looking about, as ifuncertain of their way. As she approached, she heard one of them say,"Here is a good girl, who will tell us the way." As she came on a linewith the carriage, this same man addressed her: "My good girl, can youtell us the way to Monza?"

"You are going in the wrong direction," replied the poor girl; "Monzalies there." As she turned to point it out, his companion (it wasNibbio) seized her by the waist, and lifted her from the ground. Lucyscreamed from surprise and terror; the ruffian threw her into thecarriage; a third, who was seated in the bottom of it, seized her, andcompelled her to sit down before him; another put a handkerchief overher mouth, and stifled her cries. Nibbio then entered the carriage, thedoor was closed, and the horses set off on a gallop. He who had askedher the perfidious question remained behind; he was an emissary of

Egidio, who had watched Lucy when she quitted the convent, and hadhastened by a shorter road to inform his colleagues, and wait for her atthe place agreed on.

But who can describe the terror and anguish of the unfortunate girl? Whocan tell what passed in her heart? Cruelly anxious to ascertain herhorrible situation, she wildly opened her eyes, but closed them again atthe sight of those frightful faces. She struggled in vain. The men heldher down in the bottom of the carriage: if she attempted to cry, theydrew the handkerchief tightly over her mouth. In the mean while, threegruff voices, endeavouring to assume a tone of humanity, said to her,"Be quiet, be quiet: do not be afraid; we do not wish to harm you."After a while her struggles ceased, she languidly opened her eyes, andthe horrible faces before her appeared to blend themselves into onemonstrous image; her colour fled, and she fell lifeless into their arms.

"Courage, courage," said Nibbio; but Lucy was now beyond the reach ofhis horrible voice.

"The devil! she appears to be dead," said one of them. "If she shouldreally be dead!"

"Poh!" said the other, "these fainting fits are common to women; theydon't die in this way."

"Hush," said Nibbio, "be attentive to your duty, and do not meddle withother affairs. Keep your muskets ready, because this wood we areentering is a nest for robbers. Don't keep them in your hands--thedevil! put them behind you. Do you not see that this girl is a tenderchicken, who faints at nothing? If she sees that you have arms, she maydie in reality. When she comes to her senses, be careful not to frightenher. Touch her not, unless I tell you to do so. I can hold her. Keepquiet, and let me talk to her."

Meanwhile the carriage entered the wood. Poor Lucy awoke as from aprofound and painful slumber. She opened her eyes, and her horriblesituation rushed with full force upon her mind. She struggled again invain, she attempted to scream, but Nibbio said to her, holding up thehandkerchief, "Be tranquil; it is the best thing you can do. We do notwish to harm you; but if you do not keep silence, we must make you."

"Let me go. Who are you? Where are you taking me? Why am I here? Let mego, let me go."

"I tell you, don't be frightened. You are not a child, and you ought toknow that we will not harm you. We might have murdered you before this,if such had been our intention. Be quiet, then."

"No, no, let me go; I know you not."

"We know you well enough, however."

"Oh, holy Virgin! Let me go, for charity's sake. Who are you? Why haveyou brought me here?"

"Because we have been ordered to do so."

"Who? who? who ordered you to do it?"

"Hush!" said Nibbio, in a severe tone. "Such questions must not beanswered."

Lucy attempted to throw herself from the door of the carriage, butfinding the effort vain, she had recourse again to entreaties, and withher cheeks bathed in tears, and her voice broken by sobs, she continued,"Oh, for the love of heaven, and the holy Virgin, let me go! What harmhave I done you? I am a poor creature, who have never injured you; Iforgive you all that you have done, and will pray to God for you. If youhave a daughter, a wife, or a mother, think what they would suffer in mysituation. Remember that we must all die, and that one day you willhope that God will show mercy to you. Let me go, let me go; the Lordwill guide me on my way."

"We cannot."

"You cannot? Great God! why can you not? Where are you taking me?"

"We cannot; your supplications are useless. Do not be frightened; wewill not harm you. Be quiet; no one shall harm you."

More than ever alarmed to perceive that her words produced no effect,Lucy turned to Him who holds in his powerful hand the hearts of men, andcan, if he sees fit, soften the most ferocious. She crossed her arms onher breast, and prayed from the depth of her heart, fervently; thenagain vainly implored to be set free: but we have not the heart torelate more at length this painful journey, which lasted four hours, andwhich was to be succeeded by many hours of still deeper anguish.

At the castle, the Unknown was waiting her arrival with extraordinarysolicitude and agitation of mind. Strange, that he who had coldly andcalmly disposed of so many lives, and had regarded as nothing thetorments he inflicted, should now feel an impression of remorse, almostof terror, at the tyranny he exercised over an unknown girl, an humblepeasant! From a high window of his castle, he had for some time lookeddown upon the valley beneath; at last he saw the carriage approachingslowly at a distance, as if the horses were wearied with their rapidjourney. He perceived it, and felt his heart beat violently.

"Is she there?" thought he. "What trouble this girl gives me! I mustfree myself from it." And he prepared himself to send one of hisruffians to meet the carriage, and tell Nibbio to conduct the girlimmediately to the castle of Don Roderick; but an imperious _No_, whichmade itself heard by his conscience, caused him to relinquish hisdesign. Tormented, however, by the necessity of ordering something to bedone, and insupportably weary of waiting the slow approach of thecarriage, he sent for an old woman who was attached to his service.

This woman had been born in the castle, and had passed her life in it.She had been impressed from infancy with an opinion of the unlimitedpower of its masters; and her principal maxim was implicit obediencetowards them. To the ideas of duty were united sentiments of respect,fear, and servile devotion. When the Unknown became lord of the castle,and began to make such horrible use of his power, she experienced adegree of pain, and at the same time a more profound sentiment of

subjection. In time she became habituated to what was daily actingbefore her: the powerful and unbridled will of such a lord she viewed asan exercise of fated justice. When somewhat advanced in years, she hadespoused a servant of the house, who being sent on a hazardousexpedition, left his body on the high road, and his wife a widow in thecastle. The revenge that her lord took for his death imparted to her asavage consolation, and increased her pride at being under hisprotection. From that day she rarely set foot beyond the castle walls,and by degrees there remained to her no other idea of human beings, thanthat of those by whom she was daily surrounded. She was not employed inany particular service, but each one gave her something to do as itpleased him. She had sometimes clothes to mend, food to prepare, andwounds to dress. Commands, reproaches, and thanks were equally mingledwith abusive raillery: she went by the appellation of the _old woman_,and the tone with which the name was uttered varied according to thecircumstances and humour of the speaker. Disturbed in her idleness andirritated in her self-love, which were her two ruling passions, shereturned these compliments with language in which Satan might haverecognised more of his own genius than in that of her persecutors.

"You see that carriage below there," said the Unknown.

"I do," said she.

"Have a litter prepared immediately, and let it carry you to_Malanotte_. Quick, quick; you must arrive before the carriage; itapproaches with the slow step of death. In this carriage there is--thereought to be--a young girl. If she is there, tell Nibbio from me, that hemust place her in the litter, and that he must come at once to me. Youwill get into the litter with her; and when you arrive here, you musttake her to your room. If she asks you where you are leading her, whoseis this castle, be careful----"

"Oh, do not doubt me," said the old woman.

"But," pursued the Unknown, "comfort her, encourage her."

"What can I say to her?"

"What can you say to her? Comfort her, I tell you. Have you arrived atthis age, and know not how to administer consolation to the afflicted?Have you never had any sorrow? Have you never been visited by fear? Doyou not know the language that consoles in such moments? Speak thislanguage to _her_ then; find it in the remembrance of your ownmisfortunes. Go directly."

When she was gone, he remained some time at the window, gazing at theapproaching carriage; he then looked at the setting sun, and theglorious display of clouds about the horizon. He soon withdrew, closedthe window, and kept pacing the apartment in a state of uneasyexcitement.

CHAPTER XXI.

The old woman hastened to obey, and gave orders, under authority of thatname which, by whomsoever pronounced, set the whole castle in motion, asno one imagined that any one would dare to use it unauthorised. Shereached _Malanotte_ a little before the carriage: when it was near athand, she left the litter; and making a sign to the coachman to stop,approached the window, and whispered in the ear of Nibbio the will ofher master.

Lucy, sensible that the motion of the carriage had ceased, shook off thelethargy into which she had for some time been plunged, and in an agonyof terror looked around her. Nibbio had drawn himself back on the seat,and the old woman, resting her chin on the window, said to Lucy, "Come,my child; come, poor girl; come with me. I have orders to treat youkindly, and to offer you every consolation."

At the sound of a female voice the unfortunate girl felt a momentaryrelief, which was, however, succeeded by deeper terror as she looked atthe person from whom it proceeded. "Who are you?" said she, anxiouslyfixing her eyes upon her.

"Come, come, poor girl," repeated the old woman.

Nibbio and his two companions, inferring the designs of their masterfrom the extraordinary deportment of the old woman, endeavoured topersuade the poor girl to obey; but Lucy kept gazing at the wild andsavage solitude around, which left her no ray of hope. However, sheattempted to cry out; but seeing Nibbio give a look to the handkerchief,she stopped, trembled, was seized, and then placed in the litter. Theold woman was placed beside her; and Nibbio left the two villains fortheir escort, and hastened forward at the call of his master. Lucy,aroused to momentary energy by the near approach of the deformed andwithered features of her companion, cried, "Where am I? Where are youtaking me?"

"To one who wishes you well; to a great--you are a lucky girl; be happy,do not be afraid; be happy. He has told me to encourage you; you willtell him that I have done so, will you not?"

"Who is this man? What is he? What does he want with me? I do not belongto him. Tell me where I am. Let me go. Tell these men to let me go, totake me to some church. Oh, you, who are a woman, in the name of theholy Virgin, I entreat you."

This holy and tender name, so often pronounced with respect in her earlyyears, and for so long a time neglected and forgotten, produced on themind of the wretched woman, who had not heard it for so long a time, aconfused impression, like the remembrance of lights and shadows on themind of one blind from infancy.

Meanwhile the Unknown, standing at the door of the castle, looked below,and saw the litter slowly ascending, and Nibbio walking a few steps inadvance of it. At the sight of his master, he hurried forward. "Comehere," said the signor to him, and led the way to an inner hall. "Well?"said he, stopping.--"All has been done according to your wishes,"replied Nibbio, bowing. "The order in time, the young girl in time, noone near the place, a single cry, no one alarmed, the coachman diligent,

the horses swift; but----"

"But what?"

"But, to say truth, I would rather have received orders to plunge adagger in her heart at once, than to have been obliged to look at her,and hear her entreaties."

"What is this? What is this? What do you mean?"

"I would say that during the whole journey--yes, during the wholejourney--she has excited my compassion."

"Compassion! What dost thou know of compassion? What _is_ compassion?"

"I have never understood what it is until to-day; it is something likefear; if it takes possession of one, one is no longer a man."

"Let me hear, then, what she has done to excite your compassion?"

"Oh, most illustrious signor, she wept, implored, and looked sopiteously; then turned pale, pale as death; then wept, and prayed again,and said such words----"

"I will not have this girl in the castle," thought the Unknown. "I waswrong to embark in this business; but I have promised, I have promised:when she is far away----" And looking imperiously at Nibbio, "Now," saidhe, "put an end to your compassion; mount a horse, take with you two orthree companions, if you wish; go to the castle of Don Roderick, thouknowest it. Tell him to send immediately, immediately--or otherwise----"

But another _No_, more imperious than the first, whose sound was heardin the depth of his soul, prevented his proceeding. "_No_," said he in adetermined tone, as if expressing the command of this secretvoice,--"_no_; go to bed; and to-morrow morning you shall do what Ishall then order."

"This girl must have some demon who protects her," thought he, as heremained alone, with his arms crossed on his breast, regarding thefitful shadows cast by the rays of the moon on the floor, which dartedthrough the grating of the lofty windows. "She must have some demon oran angel who protects her. Compassion in Nibbio! To-morrow morning,to-morrow morning at the latest, she shall be sent away; she must submitto her destiny, that is certain. And," continued he, with the tone ofone who gives a command to a wayward child, under the conviction that hewill not obey it, "we will think of it no more. This animal Don Roderickmust not come to torment me with thanks, for--I do not wish to hear herspoken of. I have served him--because I promised to do so; and Ipromised, because it was my destiny. But Don Roderick shall pay me withusury. Let us see----"

And he endeavoured to imagine some difficult enterprise in which toengage Don Roderick as a punishment; but his thoughts involuntarilyrecurred to another subject. "Compassion in Nibbio! What has she done? Imust see her. No! Yes! I must see her."

He passed through several halls, and arriving at the apartment of the

old woman, knocked with his foot at the door.

"Who is there?"

"Open."

At the sound of this voice, the old woman quickly obeyed, and flung thedoor wide open. The Unknown threw a glance around the chamber, and bythe light of the lantern, which stood on the table, saw Lucy on thefloor in one corner of it.

"Why did you place her there?" said he, with a frowning brow.

"She placed herself there," replied she, timidly. "I have done all Icould to encourage her; but she will not listen to me."

"Rise," said he to Lucy, who, at the noise of his step, and at the soundof his voice, had been seized with new terror. She buried her face inher hands, and remained silent and trembling before him.

"Rise; I will not harm you; I can befriend you," said the signor."Rise!" repeated he, in a voice of thunder, irritated at having spokenin vain.

As if alarm had restored her exhausted strength, the unfortunate girlfell on her knees, clasped her hands on her breast, as if before asacred image, then with her eyes fixed on the earth, exclaimed, "Here Iam, murder me if you will."

"I have already told you that I will not harm you," replied the Unknown,in a more gentle tone, gazing at her agonised and altered features.

"Courage, courage," said the old woman. "He tells you himself that hewill not harm you."

"And why," resumed Lucy, in a voice in which indignation and despairwere mingled with alarm and dismay,--"why make me suffer the torments ofhell? What have I done to you?"

"Perhaps they have not treated you kindly? Speak!"

"Oh, kindly treated! They have brought me hither by treachery and force.Why, why did they bring me? Why am I here? Where am I? I am a poorcreature. What have I done to you? In the name of God----"

"God! God! always God!" said the Unknown. "Those who are too weak todefend themselves, always make use of the name of God, as if they knewsomething concerning him! What! do you mean by this word to make me----"and he left the sentence unfinished.

"Oh, signor, what could I mean, a poor girl like me, except that youshould have pity on me? God pardons so many deeds for one act of mercy!Let me go; for pity, for charity, let me go. Do not make a poor creaturesuffer thus! Oh, you, who have it in your power, tell them to let me go.They brought me hither by force. Put me again in the carriage with thiswoman, and let it carry me to my mother. O holy Virgin! My mother! mymother! Perhaps she is not far from here--I thought I saw my mountains!

Why do you make me suffer? Carry me to a church; I will pray for you allmy life. Does it cost you so much to say one word? Oh, I see that youare touched! Say but the word, say it. God pardons so many deeds for oneact of mercy."

"Oh, why is she not the daughter of one of the cowards who outlawedme?" thought the Unknown. "I should then enjoy her sufferings; butnow----"

"Do not stifle so good an inspiration," pursued Lucy, on seeinghesitation in the countenance of her persecutor. "If you do not grant memercy, the Lord will; he will send death to relieve me, and all will beover. But you--one day, perhaps, you also--but no, no--I will pray theLord to preserve you from evil. What would it cost you to say one word?If ever you experience these torments----"

"Well, well, take courage," said the Unknown, with a gentleness thatastonished the old woman. "Have I done you any harm? Have I menacedyou?"

"Oh, no. I see that you have a good heart, and that you pity a poorcreature. If you chose, you could alarm me more than any of them, youcould make me die with fear; and on the contrary, you have--you havegiven me some consolation. God reward you! Accomplish the work you havebegun; save me, save me."

"To-morrow morning."

"Oh, save me now, now!"

"To-morrow morning I will see you again, I tell you. Be of good courage.Rest yourself. You must need food; it shall be brought to you."

"No, no, I shall die if any one comes into this room, I shall die. Takeme away, God will reward you."

"A servant will bring you something to eat," said the Unknown; "andyou," continued he, turning to the old woman, "persuade her to eat, andto repose on the bed. If she consents to have you sleep with her, well;if not, you can sleep very well on the floor. Be kind to her, I say; andtake care that she makes no complaint of you."

He hastily quitted the room, before Lucy could renew her entreaties.

"Oh, miserable that I am! Shut, shut the door!" said Lucy, returning toseat herself in her corner. "Oh, miserable that I am! Who shall Iimplore now? Where am I? Tell me, tell me, for charity, who is thissignor? Who has been talking to me? who is he?"

"Who is he? Do you wish me to tell you? you must wait awhile first. Youare proud, because he protects you; provided you are satisfied, nomatter what becomes of me. Ask _him_ his name. If I should tell you, hewould not speak to me so gently as he did to you. I am an old woman, Iam an old woman," continued she, grumbling: but hearing the sobs ofLucy, she remembered the threat of her master; and addressing her in aless bitter tone, "Well! I have said no harm. Be cheerful. Do not ask mewhat I cannot tell you, but have courage. How satisfied most people

would be, should he speak to them as he has spoken to you! Be cheerful!Directly, you shall have something to eat; and from what he said, I knowit will be something good. And then, you must lie down, and you willleave a little room for me," added she, with an accent of suppressedrancour.

"I cannot eat; I cannot sleep. Leave me, approach me not. You will notgo away?"

"No, no," said the old woman, seating herself on a large arm-chair, andregarding her with a mingled expression of alarm and rage. She looked atthe bed, and did not very well relish the idea of being banished from itfor the night, as it was very cold; but she hoped at least for a goodsupper. Lucy felt neither cold nor hunger; she remained stupified withgrief and terror; her ideas became vague and confused as in the deliriumof a fever.

She shuddered at hearing a knock at the door. "Who is there?" cried she,"who is there? Don't let any one come in."

"It is only Martha, bringing something to eat."

"Shut, shut the door!" cried Lucy.

"Certainly," replied the old woman. Taking a basket from the hands ofMartha, she placed it on the table, and closed the door. She invitedLucy to taste the delicious food, bestowing on it profuse praises, andon the wine too, which was such as the signor himself drank with hisfriends; but seeing that they were useless she said, "It is your ownfault, you _must_ not forget to tell him that I asked you. I will eat,however, and leave enough for you, if you should come to your senses."When her supper was finished she approached Lucy again, and renewed hersolicitations.

"No, no, I wish nothing," replied she, in a faint and exhausted voice."Is the door shut?" she exclaimed, with momentary energy; "is it wellsecured?"

The old woman approached the door, and showed her that it was firmlybolted. "You see," said she, "it is well fastened. Are you satisfiednow?"

"Oh! satisfied! satisfied! in this place!" said Lucy, sinking into hercorner. "But God knows that I am here."

"Come to bed. What would you do there, lying like a dog? How silly torefuse comforts when you can have them!"

"No, no, leave me to myself."

"Well, remember it is your own fault; if you wish to come to bed, youcan--I have left room enough for you; remember I have asked you veryoften." Thus saying, she drew the clothes over her, and soon all wasprofound silence.

Lucy remained motionless, with her face buried in her hands, whichrested on her knees; she was neither awake nor asleep, but in a dreamy

state of the imagination, painful, vague, and changeful. At first, sherecalled with something of self-possession the minutest circumstances ofthis horrible day; then her reason for a moment forsook its throne,vainly struggling against the phantoms conjured by uncertainty andterror; at last, weary and exhausted, she sunk on the floor, in a stateapproaching to, and resembling, sleep. But suddenly she awoke, as at aninternal call, and strove to recall her scattered senses, to know whereshe was, and why she had been brought thither. She heard a noise, andlistened; it was the heavy breathing of the old woman, in a deepslumber; she opened her eyes on the objects around her, which theflickering of the lamp, now dying in its socket, rendered confused andindistinct. But soon her recent impressions returned distinctly to hermind, and the unfortunate girl recognised her prison; and with theknowledge came associated all the terrors of this horrible day; and,overcome anew by anxiety and terror, she wished earnestly for death.She could only pray, and as the words fell from her trembling lips, shefelt her confidence revive. Suddenly a thought presented itself to hermind; that her prayer would be more acceptable if united with anoffering of something dear to her; she remembered the object to whichshe had clung for her happiness, and resolved to sacrifice it; thenclasping her hands over her chaplet, which hung upon her neck, andraising her tearful eyes to heaven, she cried, "O most holy Virgin! thouto whom I have so often prayed, and who hast so often consoled me--thouwho hast suffered so much sorrow, and art now so glorious--thou who hastperformed so many miracles for the afflicted--holy Virgin! succour me,take me from this peril, mother of God! return me safely to my mother,and I pledge myself to remain devoted to thy service; I renounce forever the unfortunate youth, and from this time devote myself to thee!"After this consecration of herself, she felt her confidence and faithincrease; she remembered the "_to-morrow morning_" uttered by theUnknown, and took it as a promise of safety. Her wearied senses yieldedto this new sentiment, and she slept profoundly and peacefully with thename of her protectress on her lips.

But in this same castle was one who could not sleep: after havingquitted Lucy, and given orders for her supper, he had visited the postsof his fortress; but her image remained stamped on his mind, her wordsstill resounded in his ears. He retired to his chamber, and threwhimself on his bed; but in the stillness around this same image of Lucyin her desolation and anguish took possession still more absolutely ofhis thoughts, and rendered sleep hopeless. "What new feelings arethese?" thought he. "Nibbio was right; but what is there in a woman'stears to unman me thus? Did I never see a woman weep before? Ay, and howoften have I beheld their deepest agonies unmoved? But now----"

And here he recalled, without much difficulty, many an instance whenneither prayers nor tears were able to make him swerve from hisatrocious purposes; but instead of deriving augmented resolution, as hehad hoped, from the recollection, he experienced an emotion of alarm, ofconsternation; so that even, as a relief from the torment ofretrospection, he thought of Lucy. "She lives still," said he, "she ishere; there is yet time. I have it in my power to say to her, Go inpeace! I can also ask her forgiveness. Forgiveness! I ask forgiveness ofa woman! Ah, if in that word existed the power to drive this demon frommy soul, I would say it; yes, I feel that I would say it. To what am Ireduced? I am no longer myself! Well, well! many a time have suchfollies passed through my head; this will take its flight also."

And to procure the desired forgetfulness, he endeavoured to busy himselfwith some new project; but in vain: all appeared changed! that which atanother time would have been a stimulus to action, had now lost itscharm; his imagination was overwhelmed with the insupportable weight ofremembered crimes. Even the idea of continuing to associate with thosewhom he had employed as the instruments of his daring and licentiouswill was revolting to his soul; and, disgusted and weary, he foundrelief only in the thought that by the dawn of morning he would set atliberty the unfortunate Lucy.

"I will save her; yes, I will save her. As soon as the day breaks, Iwill fly to her, and say, Go, go in peace. But my promise! Ay, who isDon Roderick that I should hold sacred a promise made to _him_?" Withthe perplexity of a man to whom a superior addresses unexpectedly anembarrassing question, the Unknown endeavoured to reply to this his own,or, rather, that was whispered by this new principle, that had of asudden sprung up so awfully in his soul, to pass judgment upon him. Hewondered how he could have resolved to engage himself to inflictsuffering, without any motive of hatred or fear, on an unfortunate beingwhom he did not know, only to render a service to this man. He could notfind any excuse for it; he could not even imagine how he had been led todo it. The hasty determination had been the impulse of a mind obedientto its habitual feelings, the consequence of a thousand previous deeds;and from an examination of the motives which had led him to commit asingle deed, he was led to the retrospection of his whole life.

In looking back from year to year, from enterprise to enterprise, fromcrime to crime, from blood to blood, each one of his actions appearedabstracted from the feelings which had induced their perpetration, andtherefore exposed in all their horrible deformity, but which thosefeelings had hitherto veiled from his view. They were all his own, hewas responsible for all; they comprised his life; the horror of thisthought filled him with despair; he grasped his pistol, and raised it tohis head--but at the moment in which he would have terminated hismiserable existence, his thoughts rushed onwards to the time that mustcontinue to flow on after his end. He thought of his disfigured corpse,without sense or motion, in the power of the vilest men; theastonishment and confusion which would take place in the castle, theconversation it would excite in the neighbourhood and afar off, and,more than all, the rejoicing of his enemies. The darkness and silence ofthe night inspired him with other apprehensions still; it appeared tohim that he would not have hesitated to perform the deed in open day, inthe presence of others. "And, after all, what was it? but a moment, andall would be over." And now another thought rose to his mind: "If thatother life, of which they tell, is an invention of priests, is a merefabrication, why should I die? Of what consequence is all that I havedone? It is a trifle--but if there should be another life!"

At such a doubt, he was filled with deeper despair, a despair from whichdeath appeared no refuge. The pistol dropped from his grasp--both handswere applied to his aching head--and he trembled in every limb. Suddenlythe words he had heard a few hours before came to his memory, "Godpardons so many deeds for one act of mercy." They did not come to himclothed in the humble tone of supplication, with which he had heard thempronounced, but in one of authority which offered some gleam of hope. Itwas a moment of relief: he brought to mind the figure of Lucy, when she

uttered them; and he regarded her, not as a suppliant, but as an angelof consolation. He waited with anxiety the approach of day, that hemight hear from her mouth other words of hope and life. He imaginedhimself conducting her to her mother, "And then, what shall I doto-morrow? what shall I do for the rest of the day? what shall I do theday after, and the next day? and the night? the night which will so soonreturn? Oh, the night! let me not think of the night!" And, plunged inthe frightful void of the future, he sought in vain for some employmentof time, some method of living through the days and nights. Now hethought of abandoning his castle, and flying to some distant country,where he had never been heard of; but, could he fly from himself? Thenhe felt a confused hope of recovering his former courage and habits; andthat he should regard these terrors of his soul but as a transientdelirium: now, he dreaded the approach of day, which should exhibit himso miserably changed to his followers; then he longed for its light, asif it would bring light also to his troubled thoughts. As the day broke,a confused sound of merriment broke upon his ear. He listened; it was adistant chiming of bells, and he could hear the echo of the mountainsrepeat the harmony, and mingle itself with it. From another quarter,still nearer, and then from another, similar sounds were heard. "Whatmeans this?" said he. "For what are these rejoicings? What joyful eventhas taken place?" He rose from his bed of thorns, and opened the window.

The mountains were still half veiled in darkness, the heavens appearedenveloped in a heavy and vast cloud; but he distinguished, through thefaint dawn of the morning, crowds passing towards the opening on theright of the castle, villagers in their holyday garments. "What arethose people doing? what has happened to cause all this joy?" Andcalling a bravo, who slept in the adjoining room, he asked him the causeof the commotion. The man replied that he was ignorant of it, but wouldgo immediately and enquire. His master remained at the window,contemplating the moving spectacle, which increasing day rendered moredistinct every moment. He saw crowds passing in succession; men, women,and children, as guided by one impulse, directing their steps in onedirection. They appeared animated by a common joy; and the bells, withtheir united sound of merriment, seemed to be an echo of the generalhilarity. The Unknown looked on intently, and felt an eager curiosity toknow what could have communicated such happiness to such a multitude ofpeople.

CHAPTER XXII.

The bravo hastened back with the intelligence, that the CardinalFrederick Borromeo, Archbishop of Milan, had arrived the evening beforeat ***, and was expected to pass the day there. The report of hisarrival being spread abroad, the people had been seized with a desire tosee him; and the bells were rung in testimony of the happiness hispresence conferred, and also to give wider notice of his arrival. TheUnknown, left alone, continued to look down into the valley--"For a man!all crowding, all eager to see a man! And, nevertheless, each one ofthem has some demon that torments him; but none, none, a demon likemine; not one has passed such a night as I have. What is there in thisman to excite such joy? Some silver which he will scatter among

them.--But _all_ are not actuated by such a motive. Well, a fewwords--Oh! if he had a few words of consolation for me! Yes--why shouldI not go to him? Why not? I _will_ go. What better can I do? I will goand speak to him; speak to him alone. What shall I say to him? Why, why,that which----I will hear what he will say to me."

Having come to this vague determination, he threw over his shoulders amilitary cloak, put his pistol and dagger in his girdle, and took fromthe wall, where it hung, a carabine almost as famous as himself; thusaccoutred, he proceeded to Lucy's chamber, and leaving his carabine atthe door, he knocked and demanded admittance. The old woman hastened toopen the door; he entered, and looking around the room saw Lucy tranquiland silent in the corner of it.

"Does she sleep?" asked he in a low voice. "Why did you suffer her tosleep there? Were these my orders?"

"I did all I could; but she would neither eat nor come----"

"Let her sleep then in peace; be careful not to trouble her, and whenshe wakes--Martha will be in the next chamber, and you must send her forwhatever she may want--when she wakes--tell her I----that the signor hasgone out for a little while, that he will return, and that--he will doall that she wishes."

The old woman was astonished; "She must be some princess," thought she.

The Unknown departed, took his carabine, gave orders to Martha to be inwaiting, and to a bravo to guard the chamber, and not suffer any one toapproach; then leaving the castle, with rapid steps he descended intothe valley. The bravoes whom he met ascending the hill, stoppedrespectfully at his approach, expecting and awaiting orders for someexpedition, and were astonished at his whole appearance, and the lookswith which he returned their salute.

When he reached the public road, his presence made a very differentimpression; at his approach every one gave way, regarding him with looksof suspicion and wonder; each individual whom he met, cast at him atroubled look, bowed, and slackened his pace, in order to remain behind.He arrived at the village in the midst of the throng; his name quicklyspread from mouth to mouth, and a passage was instantly made for him topass. He enquired of one near him where the cardinal was. "In the houseof the curate," replied the person, respectfully pointing to it. He wentto it, entered a small court where there were several priests, wholooked at him with astonishment and suspicion. He saw, opposite to him,a door open, which led to a small hall, in which were also a greatcollection of priests. He left his carabine in a corner of the court,and entered the hall. He was received here, likewise, with doubtinglooks, and whispers; and his name was repeated with infinite awe. Heaccosted one of them, asking to be directed to the cardinal, as hewished to speak with him.

"I am a stranger," replied the priest; and looking around upon theassembly, he called the cross-bearer, who at the time was saying to onenear him, "He here!--the famous----What can have brought him here? Makeroom!" At this call, which resounded in the general silence, he felthimself compelled to advance. He bowed before the Unknown, raised his

eyes in uneasy curiosity to his face, and understanding his request, hestammered out, "I do not know if his illustrious lordship--at thistime--is--can--however, I will go and see." And he went, against hiswill, to carry the message to the cardinal.

At this period of our history we cannot do otherwise than rest a while,as the traveller worn out and weary with a long journey through asterile and savage land, refreshes himself for a season under the shadeof a tree, near a fountain of living water. We are about to introduce aperson whose name and memory cause an emotion of respect and sympathy;and this emotion is the more grateful from our previous contemplation ofwickedness and crime. We trust our readers will excuse our devoting afew moments to this great and good man.

Frederick Borromeo, born in the year 1564, was one of those rarecharacters who have employed a fine genius, the resources of greatwealth, the advantages of privileged rank, and unceasing industry, forthe discovery and practice of that which was for the good of mankind.His life was like a stream, which, issuing limpid from its native rock,moves on undefiled over various lands; and, clear and limpid still,unites itself with the ocean. In the midst of the pomps and pleasures ofthe world, he applied himself from his earliest youth to study and obeythe precepts of religion; and this application produced in his heart itslegitimate fruits. He took truth for the rule of his thoughts andactions. He was taught by it not to look upon this life as a burthen tothe many, and a pleasure to the few; but as a scene of activity for all,and of which all must render their account; and the chief aim of histhoughts had ever been to render his life useful and holy.

In 1580, he declared his resolution to devote himself to the ministry ofthe church, and he took the habit from the hands of his cousin Carlos,whom the public voice, even to the present day, has uniformlyacknowledged as a saint.[31] He entered a short time after into thecollege at Pavia, founded by that holy man, and which still bears thename of the family. There, whilst applying himself with assiduity to theoccupations prescribed by its rules, he voluntarily imposed on himself,in addition, the task of instructing the poor and ignorant in theprinciples of the Christian religion, and of visiting, consoling, andaiding the sick. He made use of the authority which was conceded to himby all, to induce his companions to second him in these deeds ofbenevolence; he steadily refused all worldly advantages, and led a lifeof self-denial and devotion to the cause of religion and virtue. Thecomplaints of his kindred, who thought the dignity of the house degradedby his plain and simple habits of life, were unavailing. He had anotherconflict to sustain with the ecclesiastical authorities, who wished toimpel him forward to distinction, and make him appear as the prince ofthe place. From all this, however, he carefully withdrew himself,although at the time but a youth.

[31] Saint Charles Borromeo.

It would not have been astonishing that, during the life of his cousinCarlos, Frederick should have imitated the example and followed thecounsel of so good a man; but it was surprising, that after his death noone could perceive that Frederick, although only twenty years of age,had lost his guardian and guide. The increasing splendour of histalents, his piety, the support of many powerful cardinals, the

authority of his family, the name itself, to which Carlos had caused tobe associated an idea of sanctity and sacerdotal superiority, allconcurred to point him out as a proper subject for ecclesiasticaldignity. But he, persuaded in the depth of his soul of that which notrue Christian can deny, that a man has no real superiority overothers, but in devotion to their good, dreaded distinction, and soughtto avoid it. He did not wish to escape from the obligation to serve hisneighbour; his life was but one scene of such services; but he did notesteem himself worthy of so high and responsible an office. Governed bysuch feelings, in 1595, when Clement VIII. offered him the archbishopricof Milan, he refused it without hesitation, but was finally obliged toyield to the express command of the pope.

Such demonstrations are neither difficult nor rare; it is no greatereffort for hypocrisy to assume them, than for raillery to deride them.But are they not also the natural expression of wise and virtuousfeeling? The life is the test of sincerity; and though all thehypocrites in the world had assumed the expression of virtuoussentiments, yet the sentiments themselves will always command ourrespect and veneration, when their genuineness is evinced by a life ofdisinterestedness and self-sacrifice.

Frederick, as archbishop, was careful to reserve for himself only thatwhich was barely necessary, of his time and his wealth: he said, as allthe world says, that the ecclesiastical revenues are the patrimony ofthe poor; and we shall see how he put this maxim in practice. He causedan estimate to be made of the sum necessary for his expenses, and forthose employed in his service: finding it to be 600 sequins, he orderedthat amount to be taken from his patrimonial revenues for the supply ofhis table. He exercised such minute economy with regard to himself, thathe did not relinquish any article of dress until it was entirely wornout; but he joined to these habits of extreme simplicity, an exquisiteneatness, which was remarkable in this age of luxury and uncleanliness.He did more: in order that nothing should be lost from the fragments ofhis frugal table, he assigned them to a hospital for the poor, and aservant came every day to gather the remnants for that purpose. From theattention which he paid to such minutiæ, we might form a contracted ideaof his mind, as being incapable of elevating itself to more extensivedesigns, were it not for the Ambrosian library, which remains a monumentof his liberality and magnificence. To furnish it with books andmanuscripts, besides those which he had already collected, he sent eightof the most skilful and learned men to make purchases of them in France,Spain, Germany, Italy, Flanders, Greece, Lebanon, and Jerusalem. Hesucceeded in collecting 30,000 printed volumes, and 14,000 manuscripts.He joined to the library a college of doctors: these doctors were ninein number, and supported by him as long as he lived; after his death,the ordinary revenues not being sufficient for the expense, they werereduced to two. Their duty consisted in the cultivation of the variousbranches of human knowledge, theology, history, belles lettres,ecclesiastical antiquities, and Oriental languages. Each one was obligedto publish some work on the subject to which he had particularly appliedhimself. He added to this a college, which he called _Trilingue_[32],for the study of the Greek, Latin, and Italian languages; and a collegeof pupils, who were instructed in these languages to become professorsin their turn. He united to these also a printing establishment for theOriental languages, for Hebrew, Chaldee, Arabic, Persian, and Armenian;a gallery of pictures, and another of statues; and a school for the

three principal arts of design. For the latter, he was at no loss tofind professors; but this was not the case with regard to the Easternlanguages, which were at this time but little cultivated in Europe. Inthe orders which he left for the government and regulations of thelibrary, we perceive a perpetual attention to utility, admirable initself, and much in advance of the ordinary ideas of his time. Heprescribed to the librarian the cultivation of a regular correspondencewith the learned men of Europe, to keep himself acquainted with thestate of science, and to procure every new and important work; he alsocharged him to point out to young students the books necessary for them,and, whether natives or foreigners, to afford them every possiblefacility in making use of those of the library. There is a history ofthe Ambrosian library by one Pierpaolo Bosca, who was librarian afterthe death of Frederick, in which all the excellent regulations areminutely detailed. Other libraries existed in Italy, but with littlebenefit to the studious: the books were carefully concealed from view intheir cases, and inaccessible to all, except on rare occasions, and withthe utmost difficulty. A book might then be seen, but not studied. It isuseless to enquire what were the fruits of these establishments ofBorromeo, but we must admire the generosity, judgment, and benevolenceof the man who could undertake and execute such things, in the midst ofthe ignorance, inertness, and general indifference which surrounded him.And in attention to public, he was not unmindful of private benevolence;indeed, his whole life was a perpetual almsgiving; on the occasion ofthe famine of which our history has spoken, we may have to relate morethan one instance of his wisdom and generosity.

[32] Three languages.

The inexhaustible charity of the man shone as much in his privatecharities, as in his splendid and magnificent public establishmentsalready recorded. On one occasion he saved a young lady from beingimmured in a convent against her wish. Her selfish father pretended hecould not marry her suitably without a portion of 4000 crowns. Thebishop advanced the money.

Easy of access, he made it a principle to receive the poor who appliedto him, with kindness and affection. And on this point he was obliged todispute with the nobility, who wished to keep him to their standard ofaction. One day, whilst visiting among the mountaineers, and instructingsome poor children, Frederick bestowed caresses on them. A nobleman whowas present, warned him to be careful, as the children were dirty anddisgusting. The good bishop, not without indignation, replied, "Thesesouls are committed to my care; these children may never see me again;and are you not willing that I should embrace them?"

He, however, seldom felt indignation or anger: he was admired for aplacability, a sweetness of manner nearly imperturbable; which, however,was not natural to him, but the effect of continual combat against aquick and hasty disposition. If ever he appeared harsh, it was to thosesubordinate pastors, whom he found guilty of avarice, or negligence, orany other vice opposed to the spirit of their high calling. With regardto his own interests or temporal glory, he exhibited no emotion, eitherof joy or regret; admirable indeed, if his spirit was in reality notaffected by these emotions; but more admirable still, if viewed as theresult of continued and unremitted effort to subdue them. And amidst allthe important cares with which he was occupied, he did not neglect the

cultivation of his mind; he devoted himself to literature with so muchardour, that he became one of the most learned men of his time.

We must not, however, conceal that he adopted with firm persuasion, andmaintained with constancy, certain opinions, which at this day wouldappear singular and ill-founded; these, however, were the errors of histime, and not his own.

Our readers may perhaps enquire, if so learned and studious a man hasleft no monument of his labours and studies? His works, great and small,Latin and Italian, printed as well as manuscript, amount to more than ahundred; they are preserved with care in the library which he founded.They are composed of moral treatises, sermons, historical dissertations,sacred and profane antiquities, literature, the fine arts, &c.

And what is the reason that they are so little known, so little soughtfor? We cannot enter into the causes of this phenomenon, as ourexplanation might not be satisfactory to our readers. So that we hadbetter resume the course of our history, in relating facts concerningthis extraordinary man.

CHAPTER XXIII.

The Cardinal Frederick was engaged in study, as was his custom,preparatory to the hour of divine service, when the cross-bearerentered, with a disturbed and unquiet air.

"A strange visit,--strange indeed, most illustrious signor."

"From whom?" asked the cardinal.

"From the signor ----," replied the chaplain; pronouncing the name whichwe are unable to repeat to our readers. "He is without, in person, andasks admittance to the presence of your lordship."

"Indeed!" said the cardinal, closing his book and rising from his seat,his countenance brightening; "let him come in, let him come inimmediately."

"But----," replied the chaplain, "does your lordship know who this manis? It is the famous outlaw ----."

"And is it not a happy circumstance for a bishop, that such a man shouldhave come to seek him?"

"But----," insisted the chaplain, "we never dare speak of certainthings, because my lord says they are idle tales. However, in this caseit appears to be a duty----. Zeal makes enemies, my lord, and we knowthat more than one ruffian has boasted that sooner or later----"

"And what have they done?"

"This man is an enterprising, desperate villain, who is in strict

correspondence with other villains, as desperate as himself, and who,perhaps, have sent him----"

"Oh! what discipline is this!" said the cardinal, smiling; "the soldiersexhort the general to cowardice!" Then, with a grave and pensive air, heresumed, "Saint Carlo would not have deliberated a moment, whether heshould receive such a man; he would have gone to seek him. Let him enterimmediately; he has already waited too long."

The chaplain moved towards the door, saying in his heart, "There is noremedy; these saints are always obstinate."

He opened the door, and reaching the hall, where he had left theecclesiastics, he beheld them collected together in one corner of theroom, and the Unknown standing alone in another. As he approached him,he eyed him keenly to ascertain whether he had not arms concealed abouthis person. "Truly, before introducing him, we might at leastpropose----," but his resolution failed him. He spoke--"My lord expectsyour lordship. Be kind enough to come with me." And he led the way intothe presence of Frederick, who came forward to meet the Unknown with apleased and serene countenance, making a sign to the chaplain to quitthe room.

The Unknown and the cardinal remained for some moments silent andundecided; the former experienced at the same time a vague hope offinding some relief to his internal torments, and also a degree ofirritation and shame at appearing in this place as a penitent, toconfess his sins, and implore pardon of a man. He could not speak;indeed, he hardly wished to do so. However, as he raised his eyes to thecardinal's face, he was seized with an irresistible sentiment ofrespect, which increasing his confidence, and subduing his pride withoutoffending it, nevertheless kept him silent.

The person of Frederick was indeed fitted to inspire respect and love.His figure was naturally majestic and noble, and was neither bent norwasted by years; his eye was grave and piercing, his brow serene andpensive; his countenance still shone with the animation of youth,notwithstanding the paleness of his face, and the visible traces itpresented of abstinence, meditation, and laborious exertion. All hisfeatures indicated that he had once been more than ordinarily handsome;the habit of solemn and benevolent thought, the internal peace of a longlife, love for mankind, and the influence of an ineffable hope, hadsubstituted for the beauty of youth, the more dignified and superiorbeauty of an old age, to which the magnificent simplicity of the_purple_ added an imposing and inexpressible charm. He kept his eyes fora few moments fixed on the Unknown, as if to read his thoughts; andimagining he perceived in his dark and troubled features somethingcorresponding to the hope he had conceived, "Oh!" cried he in ananimated voice, "what a welcome visit is this! and how I ought to thankyou for it, although it fills me with self-reproach."

"Reproach!" cried the Unknown, in astonishment; but he felt re-assuredby his manner, and the gentleness of his words, and he was glad that thecardinal had broken the ice, and commenced the conversation.

"Certainly, it is a subject of self-reproach that I should have waitedtill you came to me! How many times I might, and ought to have sought

_you_!"

"You! seek _me_! Do you know who I am? Have they told you my name?"

"Do you believe I could have felt this joy, which you may read in mycountenance--do you believe I could have felt it, at the sight of oneunknown to me? It is you who are the cause of it--you, whom it was myduty to seek--you, for whom I have so wept and prayed--you, who are thatone of my children (and I love them all with the whole strength of myaffections)--that one, whom I would most have desired to see andembrace, if I could have ever dared to indulge the hope of so doing. ButGod alone can work miracles, and he supplies the weakness and tardinessof his poor servants."

The Unknown was amazed at the kindness and warmth of this reception;agitated and bewildered by such unlooked-for benevolence, he keptsilence.

"And," resumed Frederick, more affectionately, "you have some good newsfor me; why do you hesitate to tell it me?"

"Good news! I! I have hell in my soul, and how can I bring _you_ goodnews! Tell me, tell me, if you know, what good news could you expectfrom such a one as I?"

"That God has touched your heart, and is drawing you to himself,"replied the cardinal calmly.

"God! God! If I could see! If I could hear him! Where is God?"

"Do you ask me? you! And who more than yourself has felt his presence?Do you not now feel him in your heart, disturbing, agitating you, notleaving you a moment of repose, and at the same time drawing you towardshim, and imparting a hope of tranquillity and of consolation; ofconsolation which shall be full and unlimited, as soon as youacknowledge _Him_, confess your sins, and implore his mercy!"

"Oh! yes, yes; something indeed oppresses, something consumes me. ButGod--if it be God, if it be He, of whom you speak, what can he do withme?"

These words were uttered in a tone of despair; but Frederick calmly andsolemnly replied, "What can God do with you? Through you he can exhibithis power and goodness. He would draw from you a glory, which none othercould render him; you, against whom, the cries of the world have beenfor so long a time raised--you, whose deeds are detested----" (TheUnknown started at this unaccustomed language, but was astonished tofind that it excited no anger in his bosom, but rather communicated toit a degree of alleviation.) "What glory," pursued Frederick, "willaccrue to God? A general cry of supplication has risen against youbefore his throne; among your accusers, some no doubt have beenstimulated by jealousy of the power you have exercised; but more, by thedeplorable security of your own heart, which has endured until this day.But, when _you_ yourself shall rise to condemn your life, and becomeyour own accuser, then, oh! then, God will be glorified! And you askwhat he can do with you? What am I, feeble mortal! that I should presumeto tell you what are his designs respecting you; what he will do with

this impetuous will, and imperturbable constancy, when he shall haveanimated and warmed it with love, hope, and repentance? Who are you,feeble mortal, that you should think yourself able to execute andimagine greater things for the promotion of evil and vice, than God canmake you accomplish for that of good and virtue? What can God do withyou? Forgive you! save you! accomplish in you the work of redemption!Are not these things worthy of him? Oh! speak. If I, an humblecreature--I, so miserable, and nevertheless so full of myself--I, suchas I am,--if I so rejoice at your salvation, that to assure it, I wouldjoyfully give (God is my witness) the few years that remain to me inlife, Oh! think! what must be the love of Him who inspires me with thethought, and commands me to regard you with such devotion as this!"

The countenance and manner of Frederick breathed celestial purity andlove, in accordance with the vows which came from his mouth. The Unknownfelt the stormy emotions of his soul gradually calming under suchheavenly influence, and giving place to sentiments of deep and profoundinterest. His eyes, which from infancy "had been unused to tears, becameswoln;" and burying his face in his hands, he wept the reply he couldnot utter.

"Great and good God!" cried Frederick, raising his hands and eyes toheaven, "what have I ever done--I, thy unprofitable servant--that thoushouldst have invited me to this banquet of thy grace,--that thoushouldst have thought me worthy of being thy instrument to theaccomplishment of such a miracle!" So saying, he extended his hand totake that of the Unknown.

"No!" cried he; "no! Approach me not! Pollute not that innocent andbeneficent hand! You know not what deeds have been committed by the handyou would place within your own!"

"Suffer," said Frederick, taking it with gentle violence,--"suffer me toclasp this hand, which is about to repair so many wrongs, to scatter somany blessings; which will comfort so many who are in affliction, whichwill offer itself, peaceably and humbly, to so many enemies."

"It is too much," said the Unknown, sobbing aloud; "leave me, my lord!good Frederick! leave me! Crowds eagerly await your presence, among whomare pure and innocent souls, who have come from far to see and hear you,and you remain here to converse----with whom?"

"We will leave the ninety and nine sheep," replied the cardinal; "theyare in safety on the mountain. I must now remain with the one which waslost. These people are perhaps now more satisfied than if they had thepoor bishop with them; perhaps God, who has visited you with the richesand wonders of his grace, may even now be filling their hearts with ajoy, of which they divine not the cause; perhaps they are united to uswithout knowing it; perhaps the Holy Spirit animates their hearts withthe fervour of charity and benevolence; inspires them with a spirit ofprayer; with, on your account, a spirit of thanksgiving of which you arethe unknown object."

So saying, he passed his arm around the neck of the Unknown, who, afterresisting a moment, yielded, quite vanquished by this impulse ofkindness, and fell on the neck of the cardinal, in an agony ofrepentance. His burning tears dropped on the stainless purple of

Frederick, and the pure hands of the bishop were clasped affectionatelyaround him, who had hitherto been only habituated to deeds of violenceand treachery.

The Unknown, after a long embrace, covering his face with his hands,raised his head, exclaiming, "Oh! God! Thou who art truly great andgood! I know myself now; I comprehend what I am; my iniquities are allbefore me; I abhor myself; but still--still I experience a consolation,a joy--yes, a joy which I have never before known in all my horriblelife!"

"God accords to you this grace," said Frederick, "to attract you to hisservice, to strengthen you to enter resolutely the new way he has openedto you, where you have so much to undo, to repair, to weep for!"

"Miserable that I am!" cried he, "there is so much--so much--that I canonly weep over. But at least, there are some things but just undertaken,that I can arrest--yes, there is at least one evil that I can repair."

He then briefly related, in the most energetic terms of self-execration,the story of Lucy, with the sufferings and terrors of the unfortunategirl; her entreaties, and the species of frenzy that her supplicationshad excited in his soul; adding, that she was still in the castle.

"Ah! let us lose no time!" cried Frederick, moved with pity andsolicitude. "What happiness for you! You may behold in this, the pledgeof pardon! God makes you the instrument of safety to her, to whom youwere to have been the instrument of ruin. God has indeed blessedyou!--Do you know the native place of the unhappy girl?"

The Unknown named the village.

"It is not far from this," said the cardinal; "God be praised! Andprobably----" so saying, he approached a table, and rang a little bell.The chaplain entered, with an unquiet look; in amazement he beheld thealtered countenance of the Unknown, on which the traces of tears werestill visible; and glancing at that of the cardinal, he perceived,through its wonted calmness, an expression of great satisfaction,mingled with extraordinary solicitude. He was roused from theastonishment which the contemplation excited, by a question of thecardinal, if, among the curates in the hall, "there was one from ***?"

"There is, most illustrious lord," replied the chaplain.

"Bring him hither immediately," said Frederick, "and with him, thecurate of this parish."

The chaplain obeyed, and went to the hall where the priests wereassembled. All eyes were turned towards him. He cried aloud, "His mostillustrious and reverend lordship asks for the curate of this parish andthe curate of ***."

The former advanced immediately, and at the same time was heard, amidstthe crowd, a _me?_ uttered in a tone of surprise.

"Are you not the curate of ***?" said the chaplain.

"Certainly; but----"

"His most illustrious and reverend lordship asks for you."

"Me?" replied he, and Don Abbondio advanced from the crowd with an airof amazement and anxiety. The chaplain led the way, and introduced themboth to the presence of the cardinal.

The cardinal let go the hand of the Unknown as they entered, and takingthe curate of the parish aside, related in few words the facts of thestory, asking him if he knew some kind female, who would be willing togo to the castle in a litter, to remove Lucy thence; a devoted,charitable woman, capable of acting with judgment in so novel anexpedition, and of exerting the best means to tranquillise the poorgirl, to whom deliverance itself, after such anguish and alarm, mightproduce new and overwhelming apprehensions. After having reflected amoment, the curate took upon himself the affair, and departed. Thecardinal then ordered the chaplain to have a litter prepared, and twomules ready saddled. The chaplain quitted the room to obey his orders,and the cardinal was left alone with Don Abbondio and the Unknown. Theformer, who had kept himself aloof, regarding with eager curiosity thefaces of the Unknown and the cardinal, now came forward, saying, "I wastold that your illustrious lordship wished to see me; but I suppose itwas a mistake."

"There is no mistake;" replied Frederick, "I have both a novel andagreeable commission to give you. One of your parishioners, whom youhave regarded as lost, Lucy Mondella, is found; she is near this, in thehouse of my good friend here. I wish you to go with him, and a goodwoman whom the curate of this parish will provide, and bring the poorgirl, who must be so dear to you, to this place."

Don Abbondio did his best to conceal the extreme alarm which such aproposition caused him; and bowed profoundly, in sign of obedience,first to the cardinal, and then to the Unknown, but with a piteous look,which seemed to say, "I am in your hands; be merciful: _parceresubjectis_."

The cardinal asked him of Lucy's relations.

"She has no near relation but her mother, with whom she lives," repliedDon Abbondio.

"Is _she_ at home?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Since," replied Frederick, "this poor child cannot yet go home, itwould be a great consolation for her to see her mother; if the curate ofthis village does not return before I go to church, I beg you willdesire him to send some prudent person to bring the good woman hither."

"Perhaps I had better go myself," said Don Abbondio.

"No, no; I have other employment for you."

"Her mother," resumed Don Abbondio, "is a very sensitive woman, and it

will require a good deal of discretion to prepare her for the meeting."

"That is the reason that I have named some prudent person. You, however,will be more useful elsewhere," replied the cardinal. He could haveadded, had he not been deterred by a regard to the feelings of theUnknown--"This poor child needs much to behold some person whom sheknows, after so many hours of alarm, and in such terrible uncertainty ofthe future."

It appeared strange, however, that Don Abbondio should not have inferredit from his manner, or that he should not have thought so himself; thereluctance he evinced to comply with the request of the cardinalappeared so out of place, that the latter imagined there must be somesecret cause for it. He looked at the curate attentively, and quicklydiscovering the fears of the poor man at becoming the companion of thisformidable lord, or entering his abode, even for a few moments, he feltan anxiety to dissipate these terrors; and in order to do this, and notinjure the feelings of his new friend by talking privately to DonAbbondio in his presence, he addressed his conversation to the Unknownhimself, so that Don Abbondio might perceive by his answers, that he wasno longer a man to be feared.

"Do not believe," said he, "that I shall be satisfied with this visitto-day. You will return, will you not, in company with this worthyecclesiastic?"

"_Will_ I return!" replied the Unknown: "Oh! if ever you should refuseto see me, I would remain at your door as a beggar. I must talk to you,I must hear you, I must see you, I cannot do without you!"

Frederick took his hand, and pressing it affectionately, said, "Do usthe favour, then, the curate of the village and myself, to dine with us;I shall expect you. In the mean time, whilst you are gathering the firstfruits of repentance and compassion, I will go and offer supplicationsand thanksgivings to God with the people."

Don Abbondio, at this exhibition of confidence and affection, was like atimid child, who beholds a man caressing fearlessly a rough-lookingmastiff, renowned for his ferocity and strength. It is in vain that themaster assures him the dog is a good quiet beast: he looks at him,neither contradicting nor assenting; he looks at the dog, and dares notapproach him, lest the good beast might show his teeth, if only fromhabit; he dares not retreat, from fear of the imputation of cowardice;but he heartily wishes himself safe "at home!"

The cardinal, as he was quitting the room, still holding the Unknown bythe hand, perceived that the curate remained behind, embarrassed andmotionless, and thinking that perhaps he was mortified at the littleattention that was paid to him, compared with that which was bestowed onone so criminal, he turned towards him, stopped a moment, and with anamiable smile said, "Signor Curate, you have always been with me in thehouse of our Father; but this man _perierat, et inventus est_."

"Oh! how I rejoice at it!" said the curate, bowing to them both veryreverently.

The archbishop passed on, and entering the hall, the admirable pair

presented themselves to the eager gaze of the clergy who were thereassembled. They regarded with intense curiosity those two countenances,on which were depicted different, but equally profound emotions. Thevenerable features of Frederick breathed a grateful and humble joy; inthose of the Unknown might be traced an embarrassment blended withsatisfaction, an unusual modesty, a keen remorse, through which,however, the lingerings of his severe and savage nature were apparent.More than one of the spectators thought of that passage of Isaiah, "Thewolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down withthe kid." Behind them came Don Abbondio, whom no one noticed.

When they had reached the middle of the apartment, the servant of thecardinal entered, to inform him that he had executed the orders of thechaplain, that the litter was ready, and that they only waited for thefemale whom the curate was to bring. The cardinal told him to inform DonAbbondio when the curate should have arrived, and that afterwards allwould be subject to his orders and those of the Unknown, to whom he badean affectionate farewell, saying, "I shall expect you." Bowing to DonAbbondio, he directed his steps, followed by the clergy in procession,to the church.

Don Abbondio and the Unknown were left alone in the apartment; thelatter was absorbed in his own thoughts, impatient for the moment toarrive when he should take _his_ Lucy from sorrow and prison; for shewas indeed _his_ Lucy, but in a sense very different from the precedingnight. His countenance expressed concentrated agitation, which to thesuspicious eye of Don Abbondio appeared something worse: he looked athim with a desire to begin a friendly conversation. "But what can I sayto him?" thought he. "Shall I repeat to him that I rejoice? I rejoice!at what? That having been a demon, he has formed the resolution tobecome an honest man? A pretty salutation, indeed! Eh! eh! _however_ Ishould arrange my words, my _I rejoice_ would signify nothing else! Andcan one believe that he has become an honest man all in a moment!Assertions prove nothing; it is so easy to make them! But, nevertheless,I must go with him to the castle! Oh! who would have told me this, thismorning! Oh! if ever I am so happy as to get home again, Perpetua shallanswer for having urged me to come here! Oh! miserable that I am! I musthowever say something to this man!" He had at least thought of somethingto say,--"I never expected the pleasure of being in such respectablecompany,"--and had opened his mouth to speak, when the servant enteredwith the curate of the village, who informed them that the good womanwas in the litter awaiting them. Don Abbondio, approaching the servant,said to him, "Give me a gentle beast, for, to say truth, I am not askilful horseman."

"Be quite easy," replied the valet, with a smile; "it is the mule of thesecretary, a grave man of letters."

"Well," replied Don Abbondio, and continued to himself, "Heaven preserveme!"

The Unknown had advanced towards the door, but looking back, and seeingDon Abbondio behind, he suddenly recollected himself, and bowing with apolite and humble air, waited to let him pass before. This circumstancere-assured the poor man a little; but he had scarcely reached the littlecourt, when he saw the Unknown resume his carbine, and fling it over hisshoulder, as if performing the military exercise.

"Oh! oh! oh!" thought Don Abbondio, "what does he want with this tool?That is a strange ornament for a converted person! And if some whimshould enter his head! what would become of me! what would become ofme!"

If the Unknown had had the least suspicion of the thoughts that werepassing in the mind of his companion, he would have done his utmost toinspire him with confidence; but he was far from such an imagination, asDon Abbondio was very careful not to let his distrust appear.

They found the mules ready at the door: the Unknown mounted one whichwas presented to him by a groom.

"Is she not vicious in the least?" asked Don Abbondio of the servant,with his foot in the stirrup.

"Be quite easy, she is a lamb," replied he. Don Abbondio climbed to thesaddle, by the aid of the servant, and was at last safely mounted.

The litter, which was a few steps in advance, moved at a call from thedriver, and the convoy departed.

They had to pass before the church, which was crowded with people, andthrough a small square, which was filled with villagers from abroad, whohad not been able to find a place within the walls of the church. Thereport had already spread; and when they saw the carriage appear, andbeheld the man who a few hours before had been the object of terror andexecration, a confused murmur of applause rose from the crowd. They madeway to let him pass; at the same time each one endeavoured to obtain asight of him. When he arrived in front of the church, he took off hishat, and bowed his head in reverence, amidst the tumultuous din of manyvoices, which exclaiming "God bless you!" Don Abbondio took off his hatalso, bent his head, and commended himself to the protection of heaven;and, hearing the voices of his brethren in the choir, he could notrestrain his tears.

But when they reached the open country, in the windings of the almostdeserted road, a darker veil came over his thoughts; there was nothingthat he could regard with confidence but the driver, who, belonging tothe establishment of the cardinal, must certainly be honest, andmoreover did not look like a coward. From time to time they passedtravellers crowding to see the cardinal. The sight of them was atransient balm to Don Abbondio; but still he approached this formidablevalley, where they would meet none but the vassals of the Unknown! Andwhat vassals! He desired more than ever to enter into conversation withhis companion, to keep him in good humour; but, seeing him preoccupied,he dared not attempt to interrupt his thoughts. He was then obliged tohold colloquy with himself, of which we will transcribe a part for thebenefit of the reader.

"Is it not an astonishing thing that the saints, as well as the wicked,have always quicksilver in their veins; and, not contented with making abustle themselves, they would make all mankind, if they could, join thedance with them! Is there not a fatality in it, that the mosttroublesome come to me,--to me who never meddled with any body; theytake me almost by the hair, and thrust me into their concerns! me! who

desire nothing, but to live tranquilly, if they will let me do so. Thismad knave Don Roderick. What was there wanting to make him the happiestman in the world, but a little prudence? He is rich, young, respected,courted; but happiness is a burthen to him, it seems; so that he mustseek trouble for himself and his neighbour. He must set up, forsooth,for a molester of women,--the most silly, the most villanous, the mostinsane conduct in the world. He might ride to paradise in a coach; andhe prefers to go halting to the devil's dwelling. And this man beforeme," continued he, regarding him as if he feared he could hear histhoughts, "and this man, after having, by his villanies, turned theworld upside down, now turns it upside down by his conversion--if he isreally converted! Meanwhile, it is I who am to put it to the test! Somepeople always want to make a noise! Is it so difficult to act an honestpart, all one's life, as I have? Not at all! but they prefer to murder,kill, and play the devil.--Oh! unhappy man that I am! they must alwaysbe in a bustle, even in doing penance! just as if one could not repentat home, in private, without so much noise,--without giving others somuch trouble.--And his illustrious lordship! to receive him all at oncewith open arms; to call him his dear friend, his worthy friend; tolisten to his least words as if he had seen him work miracles, to givehim his public approbation to assist him in all his undertakings; Ishould call this precipitation! And without any pledge or security, toplace a poor curate in his hands! A holy bishop--and he is suchassuredly--a holy bishop should regard his curates as the apple of hiseye. A little prudence, a little coolness, a little charity, are thingswhich, in my opinion, are not inconsistent with sanctity. And shouldthis be all hypocrisy? Who can tell the designs of such a man? To thinkthat I must accompany him into the castle? There must be some deviltryin it! Am I not unhappy enough? Let me not think of it. But how has Lucyfallen into the clutches of this man? It is a secret between him and mylord the cardinal, and they don't deign to inform me concerning it: Idon't care to meddle with the affairs of others, but when one's life isin danger one has a right to know something.--But poor Lucy--I shall besatisfied if she escapes. Heaven knows what she has suffered. I pityher, but she was born to be my ruin. And if this man is reallyconverted, what need has he of me? Oh! what a chaos! But Heaven owes meits protection, since I did not get myself into the difficulty. If Icould only read in the countenance of this man what passes in his soul!Look at him; now he looks like Saint Anthony in the desert, and now likeHolofernes himself."

In truth, the thoughts which agitated the Unknown passed over hiscountenance, as in a stormy day the clouds fly over the face of the sun,producing a succession of light and shade. His soul, calmed by thegentle language of Frederick, felt elated at the hope of mercy, pardon,and love; but then he sank again under the weight of the terrible past.Agitated and uneasy, he retraced in his memory those iniquities whichwere reparable, and considered what remedies would be the safest andquickest. And this unfortunate girl! how much she has suffered! how muchhe had caused her to suffer! At this thought his impatience to deliverher increased, and he made a sign to the coachman to hasten.

They entered at last into the valley. In what a situation was now ourpoor Don Abbondio! to find himself in this famous valley, of which hehad heard such black and horrible tales. These famous men, the flowerof the bravoes of Italy, these men without pity or fear, to see them inflesh and blood,--to meet them at every step! They bowed, it is true,

respectfully, in the presence of their lord, but who knows what passedin their hearts, and what wicked design against the poor priest might,even then, be forming in their brains.

They reached _Malanotte_; bravoes were at the door, who bowed to theUnknown, glancing with eager curiosity at his companion, and the litter.If the departure of their master alone, at the break of day, had beenregarded as extraordinary, his return was considered not less so. Is ita prize which he conducts? And how has he taken possession of it alone?And what is this strange litter? And whose is this livery? They did notstir, however; knowing, from the countenance of their master, that theirsilence was what he desired.

They reached the castle; the bravoes who were on the esplanade and atthe door, retired on both sides to leave the passage free. The Unknownmade a sign to them not to go farther off. Spurring his mule, he passedbefore the litter, and beckoning to Don Abbondio and the coachman tofollow him, he entered a first court, and thence a second: approaching asmall door, and with a gesture keeping back a bravo, who advanced tohold his stirrup, he said, "Remain there yourself, and let none approachnearer." He dismounted, and with the reins in his hand, drew near thewoman, who had withdrawn the curtains of the litter, saying to her in alow voice, "Hasten to comfort her; and make her understand at once thatshe is free, and with friends. God will reward you!" He then advanced tothe curate, and helping him to dismount, said, "Signor Curate, I willnot ask your forgiveness for the trouble you have taken on my account;you suffer for one who will reward you well, and for this poor girl."

His countenance not less than his words restored the courage of DonAbbondio; drawing a full breath, which had been long pent up in hisbreast, he replied, "Your lordship jests, surely? But--but--" andaccepting the hand offered to him so courteously, he slid from thesaddle. The Unknown took the bridle, and gave both animals to the careof the driver, ordering him to wait there until their return. Taking akey from his pocket, he opened the little door, and followed by his twocompanions, the curate and the female, ascended the stairs.

CHAPTER XXIV.

Lucy had just risen. She was endeavouring to collect her senses, toseparate the turbid visions of sleep from the remembrance of the sadreality, which appeared to her a dismal dream, when the old woman, in avoice which she meant to be humble and gentle, said to her, "Ah! youhave slept! You would have done better to go to bed; I told you so ahundred times." Receiving no answer, she continued, "Eat a little; youhave need of something; if you do not, he will complain of me when hereturns."

"No, no, I wish to go to my mother. Your master promised me, he said,_to-morrow morning_. Where is he?"

"He has gone away; but he left word that he would return soon, and doall that you should desire."

"Did he say so? did he say so? Well; I wish to go to my mother, now,now."

Suddenly they heard steps in the adjoining chamber, and a knock at thedoor. The old woman demanded, "Who is there?"

"Open," replied the well-known voice.

The old woman drew the bolt, and holding the door open, the Unknown letDon Abbondio and the good woman pass in; then closing the door, andremaining outside himself, he sent away the old woman to a distant partof the castle. The first appearance of other persons increased theagitation of Lucy, to whom any change brought an accession of alarm. Shelooked, and beholding a priest and a female, felt somewhat reassured;she looked again! Can it be? Recognising Don Abbondio, her eyes remainedfixed as by the wand of an enchanter. The kind woman bent over her, andwith an affectionate and anxious countenance, said, "Alas! my poorchild! come, come with us."

"Who are you?" said Lucy,--but, without waiting her reply, she turnedagain to Don Abbondio, exclaiming, "Is it you? Is it you indeed, SignorCurate? Where are we? Oh! unhappy girl! I am no longer in my rightmind!"

"No, no, it is I, in truth; take courage. We have come to take you away.I am indeed your curate, come for this purpose----"

As if restored to strength in an instant, Lucy stood up, and fixing hereyes again on their faces, she said, "The Virgin has sent you, then!"

"I have no doubt of it," said the good lady.

"But is it true, that we may go away? Is it true indeed?" resumed Lucy,lowering her voice to a timid and fearful tone. "And all these people,"continued she, with her lips compressed, and trembling from alarm andhorror; "and this lord--this man--he promised me indeed."

"He is here also in person with us," said Don Abbondio. "He is without,expecting us; let us go at once; we must not make such a man wait."

At this moment the Unknown appeared at the door. Lucy, who, a fewmoments before, had desired earnestly to see him--nay, having no otherhope in the world, had desired to see none but him--now that she was sounexpectedly in the presence of friends, was, for a moment, overcomewith terror. Shuddering with horror, she hid her face on the shoulder ofthe good dame. Beholding the innocent girl, on whom the evening beforehe had not had resolution to fix his eyes; beholding her countenance,pale, and changed, from fasting and prolonged suffering, the Unknownhesitated; but perceiving her impulse of terror, he cast down his eyes,and, after a moment's silence, exclaimed, "It is true! forgive me!"

"He comes to save you; he is not the same man; he has become good. Doyou hear him ask your forgiveness?" whispered the dame in the ear ofLucy.

"Could any one say more? Come, lift up your head; do not play the child.

We can go away now, immediately," said Don Abbondio.

Lucy raised her head, looked at the Unknown, and beholding his humbleand downcast expression, she was affected with a mingled feeling ofgratitude and pity: "Oh! my lord! may God reward you for your compassionto an unfortunate girl!" cried she; "and may he recompense you ahundred-fold for the consolation you afford me by these words!" Sosaying, he advanced towards the door, and went out, followed by Lucy;who, quite encouraged, was supported by the arm of the good lady, DonAbbondio bringing up the rear. They descended the stairs, passed throughthe courts, and reached the litter; into which, the Unknown with almosttimid politeness (a new thing for him!) assisted Lucy and her newcompanion to enter. He then aided Don Abbondio to reseat himself in thesaddle. "Oh! what complaisance!" said the latter, moving much morelightly than he had done on first mounting.

The convoy resumed their way; as soon as the Unknown was mounted, hishead was raised, and his countenance resumed its accustomed expressionof command and authority. The robbers whom they met on their roaddiscovered in it marks of strong thought and extraordinary solicitude;but they did not, they could not, comprehend the cause. They knewnothing as yet of the great change which had taken place in the soul ofthe man, and certainly such a conjecture would not have entered intotheir minds.

The good dame hastened to draw the curtains around the litter; pressingthe hands of Lucy affectionately, she endeavoured to encourage her bywords of piety, congratulation, and tenderness. Seeing, however, thatbesides the exhaustion from so much suffering, the confusion andobscurity of all that had happened prevented the poor girl from beingalive to the satisfaction of her deliverance; she said what she thoughtwould be most likely to restore her thoughts to their ordinary course.She mentioned the village to which she belonged, and towards which theywere hastening.

"Yes, indeed!" said Lucy, remembering that this village was but a shortdistance from her own. "Oh! holy Virgin! I render thee thanks. Mymother! my mother!"

"We will send for her immediately," said her friend, not knowing that ithad already been done.

"Yes, yes; God will reward you. And you,--who are you? How is it thatyou have come here?"

"Our curate sent me, because this lord, whose heart God has touched,(blessed be his holy name!) came to our village to see the cardinalarchbishop, who is visiting among us, the dear man of God! This lord hasrepented of his horrible sins, and wishes to change his life; and hetold the cardinal that he had carried off an innocent girl, with theconnivance of another, whose name the curate did not mention to me."

Lucy raised her eyes to heaven.

"You know it, perhaps," continued the lady. "Well, the lord cardinalthought, that a young girl being in the question, a female should befound to accompany her; he told the curate to look for one, and the

curate kindly came to me----"

"Oh! may God reward you for your goodness!"

"And the curate desired me to encourage you, my poor child, to relieveyou from uneasiness at once, and to make you understand, how the Lordhas miraculously preserved you."

"Oh! miraculously indeed, through the intercession of the Virgin!"

"He told me to comfort you, to advise you to pardon him who has done youthis evil, to rejoice that God has shown compassion towards him, andeven to pray for him; for, besides its being a duty, you will derivecomfort from it to your own heart."

Lucy replied with a look which expressed assent as clearly as if she hadmade use of words, and with a sweetness which words could not haveexpressed.

"Worthy young woman!" resumed the friend. "And as your curate was alsoin our village, the lord cardinal judged it best to send him with us,thinking that he might be of some assistance. I had already heard thathe was a poor sort of a timid man; and on this occasion, he has beenwholly taken up with himself, like a hen with one chick."

"And he----he who is thus changed----who is he?"

"How! do you not know?" said the good dame, repeating his name.

"Oh! merciful heaven!" cried Lucy. For many times had she heard thisname repeated with horror, in more than one story, in which he hadappeared like the _Ogre_ of the fairy tale. At the idea of having beenin his terrible power, and of now being under his protection,--at thethought of such peril, and such deliverance, in reflecting who this manwas that had appeared to her so ferocious, and then so humble and sogentle, she was lost in astonishment, and could only exclaim, from timeto time, "Oh! merciful Heaven!"

"Yes, it is indeed a great mercy! it is a great happiness for half theworld in this neighbourhood, and afar off. When one thinks how manypeople he kept in continual alarm; and now, as our curate says----Butyou have only to look in his face to know that he is truly changed. And,besides, by 'their works' ye shall know them."

We should not tell the truth, did we say that the good dame had nocuriosity to learn more of an affair in which she played so important apart; but, to her praise it must be added, that, feeling a respectfulpity for Lucy, and estimating the weight and dignity of the chargeconfided to her, she did not for a moment think of asking her anindiscreet or idle question. All her discourse in their short journeywas composed of expressions of tenderness and interest for the poorgirl.

"It must be long since you have eaten any thing."

"I do not remember----It must indeed be some time."

"Poor child! you must need something to restore your strength."

"Yes," replied Lucy, in a faint voice.

"At my house, thanks be to God, we shall find something presently. Be ofgood cheer, it is but a short distance off."

Lucy, wearied and exhausted by her various emotions, fell languidly tothe bottom of the litter, overcome by drowsiness; and her kind companionleft her to a short repose.

As to Don Abbondio, the descent from the castle did not cause him somuch fright as the ascent thither; but it was nevertheless notagreeable. When his alarm had first ceased, he felt relieved from anintolerable burthen; but he now began to torment himself in variousways, and found materials for such an operation in the present as wellas in the future. His manner of travelling, to which he was notaccustomed, he found to be exceedingly unpleasant, especially in thedescent from the castle to the valley. The driver, obedient to a signfrom the Unknown, made his beasts set off at a quick pace; the two muleskept up with the litter; and thus poor Don Abbondio, subjected to theunusual bounding and rebounding, which was more perilous from thesteepness of the declivity they were descending, was obliged to holdfast by the saddle in order to keep his seat, not daring to ask hiscompanions to abate somewhat of their speed. Moreover, if the road layon a height, along a ridge, the mule, according to the custom of theseanimals, would obstinately keep on the outside, and place his feetliterally on the very edge of the precipice. "Thou also," said he in hisheart to the beast, "thou also hath this cursed desire to seek danger,when there are so many other paths!" He tightened the rein on the otherside, but in vain; so that, although dying of vexation and fear, hesuffered himself, as was his custom, to be led by the will of another.The bravoes no longer caused him much uneasiness now that he feltconfidence in their master. "But," thought he, nevertheless, "if thenews of this great conversion spreads, while we are yet here, who knowshow these people may take it? Who knows what might be the result?Perhaps they might take it in their heads to think I had come as amissionary! and then (heaven preserve me!) they would make me suffermartyrdom!" But we have said enough of the terrors of Don Abbondio.

The company at last arrived at the extremity of the valley; thecountenance of the Unknown became more serene, and Don Abbondiorecovered in some degree his usual composure; but still his mind wasoccupied with more distant evils. "What will this fool Don Roderick say?To be exposed thus to scoffs and jests--how sorely will he feel it!he'll certainly play the devil outright! Perhaps he will seek anotherquarrel with me because I have been engaged in this cursed business!Having had the heart to send those two demons to attack me in the road,what he will do now, heaven knows. He cannot molest my lord thecardinal, because he is obviously beyond his reach; he will be obligedto champ the bit. However, the poison will be in his veins, and he willneed to discharge it somewhere. It is well known how these affairs end;the blows always fall on the weakest. The cardinal will busy himselfwith placing Lucy in safety; this other poor devil is beyond his reach,but what is to become of me? And what will the cardinal do to defend me,after having engaged me in the business? Can he hinder this atrociousbeing from serving me a worse turn than before? And then he has so many

things to think of! he cannot pay attention to every body! They who dogood, do it in the gross, and enjoy their satisfaction without regardingminute consequences: but your evil-doer is more diligent; he lingersbehind till he sees the last result, because of the fear that tormentshim. Shall I say I have acted by my lord archbishop's command, andagainst my own will? But it will seem that I favour villany! I--for thepleasure it gives me! Heaven forbid! but enough--I'll tell Perpetua thewhole story, and leave her to circulate it--if indeed, his reverendlordship should not take up the fancy to make the whole matter public,and thrust me forward as a chief actor. However, I am determined on onething: I will take leave of my lord the cardinal as soon as we arriveat the village, and go to my home. Lucy has no longer any need of me;she is under good protection; and, after so many fatigues, I may claimthe right to take some repose.--But, should my lord be seized with thedesire to know all her story, and I be compelled to relate the affair ofthe marriage! there would then be nothing wanting to complete my misery.And if he should visit my parish! Oh! let come what will, I will nottorment myself beforehand! I have cares enough. For the present I shallshut myself up at home. But I foresee too well that my last days must bepassed in trouble and vexation."

The little troop arrived before the services of the church were over;and passing, as they had previously done, through the crowd, theyproceeded to the house of Lucy's companion.

Hardly had Don Abbondio alighted from his mule, when, making the mostprofuse compliments to the Unknown, he begged him to apologise for himto the cardinal, as he was obliged to return directly to his parish onsome urgent business. He then went in search of a staff that he had leftin the hall, and which he was accustomed to call his horse, andproceeded homewards. The Unknown remained at the cardinal's house,awaiting his return from the church.

The good dame hastened to procure Lucy some refreshment to recruit herexhausted powers; she put some dry branches under a kettle which shereplaced over the fire, and in which swam a good fowl; after havingsuffered it to boil a moment, she filled a plate with the soup, andoffered it to Lucy, congratulating herself that the affair had happenedon a day, when, as she said, "the cat was not on the hearth." "It is aday of feasting for all the world," added she, "except for thoseunfortunate creatures who can hardly obtain bread of vetches, and apolenta of millet; they hope, however, to receive something from ourcharitable cardinal. As for us, thank heaven, we are not in thatsituation; between the trade of my husband and a small piece of land, wemanage to live comfortably. Eat, then, poor child, with a good appetite;the fowl will be done presently, and you shall have something better."She then set about making preparations for dinner for the family.

As Lucy's spirits and strength returned, the necessity of arranging herdress occurred to her mind; she therefore tied up her long disorderedtresses, and adjusted the handkerchief about her neck; in doing this,her fingers entwined themselves in the chaplet, which was theresuspended: she gazed at it with much emotion, and the recollection ofthe vow she had made, this recollection which had been suspended by somany painful sensations, now rose clearly and distinctly to her mind.All the newly-awakened powers of her soul were again in a momentsubdued. And if she had not been prepared for this by a life of

innocence, resignation, and confidence, the consternation sheexperienced would have terminated in despair. After the first tumult ofher thoughts had in some measure subsided, she exclaimed, "Oh! unhappygirl! what have I done!"

But hardly had she pronounced the words, when she was terrified athaving done so; she recalled all the circumstances of her vow, herintolerable anguish, without hope of human aid, the fervour of herpetition, the fulness of resolution with which the promise had beenmade; and to repent of this promise, after having obtained the favourshe had implored, appeared to her sacrilegious ingratitude, perfidytowards God and the Virgin. It seemed to her that such infidelity wouldcertainly draw upon her new and more terrible evils, and if these shouldindeed be its consequences she could no longer hope for an answer to herprayers; she therefore hastened to abjure her momentary regret, anddrawing the chaplet reverently from her neck, and holding it in hertrembling hand, she confirmed her vow; at the same time ferventlypraying to God that he would grant her strength to fulfil it, and todrive from her thoughts circumstances which might, if they did not moveher resolution, still increase but too much the severity of thesacrifice. The absence of Renzo, without any probability of his return,which had at first been so bitter, appeared now to her a design ofProvidence, to make the two events conduce to the same end, and sheendeavoured to find in one a consolation for the other. She alsoremembered that Providence would, to finish the work, find means to makeRenzo resigned, and cause him to forget----But scarcely had this ideaentered her mind, when a new terror overwhelmed her. Conscious that herheart had still need of repentance, the unfortunate girl again hadrecourse to prayer, and mental conflict; and at length arose, if theexpression may be allowed, like a victor wearied and wounded, havingdisarmed his enemy.

Suddenly footsteps and joyous exclamations were heard; they proceededfrom the children of the family, who were returning from church. Twolittle girls and a little boy ran into the room; stopping a moment toeye the stranger, they then came to their mother, one asking the name oftheir unknown guest, another wanting to relate the wonders they hadseen. The good dame replied to them all with "Be quiet; silence!" Themaster of the house then entered with a calmer step; but with joydiffused over his countenance. He was the tailor of the village and itsenvirons; a man who knew how to read, and who had even read, more thanonce, the Legend of the Saints and the _Reali di Francia_; he wasregarded by the peasants as a man of knowledge, and when they lavishedtheir praises on him, he repelled them with much modesty, only sayingthat he had indeed mistaken his vocation, and that, perhaps, if he hadstudied---- Notwithstanding this little vanity he was the best naturedman in the world. He had been present when the curate requested his wifeto undertake her benevolent journey, and had not only given hisapprobation, but would have added his own persuasions, if that had beennecessary; and now that the ceremonies of the church, and above all, thesermon of the cardinal, had given an impetus to his amiable feelings, hereturned home with an ardent desire to know if the enterprise hadsucceeded, and to see the poor innocent girl in safety.

"See here!" said his wife to him as he entered, pointing to Lucy, whorose from her seat blushing, and stammering forth some apology. Headvanced towards her, and, with a friendly tone, cried, "You are

welcome! welcome! You bring the blessing of Heaven on this house! Howglad I am to see you here! I knew that you would arrive safely to ahaven, because I have never known the Lord commence a miracle withoutaccomplishing it; but I am well content to see you here. Poor child! Itis a great thing however to have been the subject of a miracle!"

We must not believe he was the only one who characterised the event bythis term, and that because he had read the legendary. Throughout thevillage, and the surrounding country, it was spoken of in no otherterms, as long as its remembrance lasted; and to say truth, if we regardits attendant circumstances, it would be difficult to find another namefor it.

He then approached his wife, who was employed in taking the kettle fromoff the fire, and said in a low voice, "Has all gone well?"

"Very well. I will tell you another time."

"Well, well, at your leisure."

When the dinner was ready, the mistress of the house made Lucy sit downwith them at the table, and helping her to a wing of the chicken,entreated her to eat. The husband began to dilate with much animation onthe events of the day; not without many interruptions from the children,who stood round the table eating their dinner, and who had seen too manyextraordinary things to be satisfied with playing the part of merelisteners. He described the solemn ceremonies, and then recurred to themiraculous conversion; but that which had made the most impression onhis mind, and of which he spoke the oftenest, was the sermon of thecardinal.

"To see him before the altar," said he, "a lord like him, to see himbefore the altar, as a simple curate----"

"And that golden thing he had on his head," said one of the littlegirls.

"Hush, be quiet. When one thinks, I say, that a lord like him, a man solearned, who, as they say, has read all the books in the world, a thingwhich no one else has done, not even in Milan; when one thinks that hehas adapted himself so to the comprehension of others, that every oneunderstood him----"

"I understood, I did," said the other little chatterer.

"Hush, be quiet. What did you understand, you?"

"I understood that he explained the Gospel, instead of the curate."

"Be quiet. I do not say that he was understood by those only who knowsomething, but even those who were the most stupid and ignorant, caughtthe sense perfectly. You might go now, and ask them to repeat hisdiscourse; perhaps they might not remember a single word, but they wouldhave its whole meaning in their head. And how easy it was to perceivethat he alluded to this _signor_, although he never pronounced his name!But one might have guessed it from the tears which flowed from his eyes.And all the people wept----"

"That is true," cried the little boy. "But why did they all cry likelittle children?"

"Be quiet. And there are, nevertheless, hard hearts in this country. Hehas made us feel that although there is a scarcity, we must returnthanks to God, and be satisfied; be industrious; do what we can, andthen be content, because unhappiness does not consist at all insuffering and poverty; unhappiness is the result of wicked actions.These are not fine words merely; it is well known that he lives like apoor man, that he takes the bread from his mouth to give to those thatare in need, when he might live an easier life than any one. Oh, then,there is great satisfaction in hearing him speak. He is not like manyothers, who say, 'Do as I say, and not as I do;' and besides, he hasmade it very apparent, that those even who are not what they call_gentlemen_, but who have more than is necessary, are bound to impart tothose who are in want."

And here he stopped, as if pained by some recollection; after a moment'ssilence, he filled a plate with meat from the table, and adding a loafof bread to it, tied up the whole in a napkin. "Take that," said he tothe oldest of the children, and putting in her other hand a bottle ofwine, "carry that to the widow Martha, and tell her to feast with herchildren. But be very careful what you say to her, don't seem to bedoing a charity, and don't say a word of it, should you meet any one;and take care not to break any thing."

Lucy was touched, even to tears, and her soul was filled with atenderness that withdrew her from the contemplation of her own sorrows.The conversation of this worthy man had already imparted a relief, thata direct appeal to her feelings would have failed to procure. Herspirit, yielding to the charm of the description of the august pomp ofthe church, of the emotions of piety there excited, and partaking of theenthusiasm of the narrator, forgot its woes, and, when obliged to recurto them, felt itself strengthened. The thought even of the greatsacrifice she had imposed on herself, without having lost itsbitterness, had assumed the character of austere and solemntranquillity.

A few moments after, the curate of the village entered, saying that hewas sent by the cardinal for intelligence concerning Lucy, and also toinform her that he desired to see her that day; then he thanked, in hislordship's name, her kind hosts for their benevolence and hospitality.All three, moved to tears, could not find words to reply to such amessage from such a person.

"Has your mother not yet arrived?" said the curate to Lucy.

"My mother!" cried she.

Learning that the good archbishop had sent for her mother, that it washis own kind thought, her heart was overpowered, she raised her apron toher eyes, and her tears continued to flow long after the departure ofthe curate. As these tumultuous emotions, called forth by suchunexpected benevolence, gradually subsided, the poor girl rememberedthat she had expressly solicited this very happiness of again beholdingher mother, as a condition to her vow. "_Return me safely to my

mother._" These words recurred distinctly to her memory. She wasconfirmed more than ever in her purpose to keep her vow, and repentedagain bitterly of the regret which she had for a moment experienced.

Agnes, indeed, even whilst they were speaking of her, was very near; itis easy to imagine the feelings of the poor woman at so unexpected aninvitation, at the intelligence, necessarily confused and incomplete, ofa peril which was passed, but of a frightful peril, of an obscureadventure, of which the messenger knew not the circumstances, and couldgive no explanation, and for which she could find no clue from previousfacts. "Ah, great God! ah, holy Virgin!" escaped from her lips, mingledwith useless questions, during the journey. On the road she met DonAbbondio, who, by the aid of his staff, was travelling homewards.Uttering an exclamation of surprise, Agnes made the driver stop. Shealighted, and with the curate withdrew into a grove of chestnuts, whichwas on the side of the road. Don Abbondio informed her of all he hadseen and known: much obscurity still rested upon his statement, but atleast Agnes ascertained that Lucy was now in safety.

Don Abbondio then introduced another subject of conversation, and wouldhave given her ample instruction on the manner of conducting herselfwith the archbishop, if he, as was probable, should wish to see her andher daughter. He said it would not answer for her to speak of themarriage; but Agnes, perceiving that he spoke only from his owninterest, was determined to promise nothing, because she said, "she hadother things to think of," and bidding him farewell, she proceeded onher journey.

The carriage at last reached the house of the tailor, and the mother anddaughter were folded in each other's arms. The good wife, who was theonly witness of the scene, endeavoured to soothe and calm theirfeelings; and then prudently left them alone, saying that she would goand prepare a bed for them.

Their first tumultuous joy having in some measure subsided, Agnesrequested to hear the adventures of Lucy, who attempted to relate them;but the reader knows that it was a history with which no one wasentirely acquainted, and to Lucy herself there was much that wasinexplicable, particularly the fatal coincidence of the carriage beingat that place precisely at the moment that Lucy had gone there by anextraordinary chance. With regard to this, the mother and daughter lostthemselves in conjecture, without even approaching the real cause. Asto the principal author of this plot, however, they neither of themdoubted that it was Don Roderick.

"Ah, that firebrand!" cried Agnes; "but his hour will come. God willreward him according to his works, and then he will know----"

"No, no, mother, no!" cried Lucy. "Do not wish harm to him! do not wishit to any one! If you knew what it is to suffer! if you had experiencedit! No, no! rather let us pray to God and the Virgin for him, that Godwould touch his heart as he has done that of the other lord, who wasworse than he, and who is now a saint."

The horror that Lucy felt in retracing events so painful and recent madeher hesitate more than once. More than once she said she had not theheart to proceed, and, choked by her tears, she with difficulty went on

with her narrative. But she was embarrassed by a different sentiment ata certain point of her recital, at the moment when she was about tospeak of her vow. She feared her mother would accuse her of imprudenceand precipitation; she feared that she would, as she had done in theaffair of the marriage, bring forward her broad rules of conscience, andmake them prevail; she feared that the poor woman would tell it to someone in confidence, if it were only to gain light and advice, and thusrender it public. These reflections made Lucy experience insupportableshame, and an inexplicable repugnance to speak on the subject. Shetherefore passed over in silence this important circumstance,determining in her heart to communicate it first to Father Christopher;but how great was her sorrow at learning that he was no longer at theconvent, that he had been sent to a distant country, a countrycalled----

"And Renzo?" enquired Agnes.

"He is in safety, is he not?" said Lucy, hastily.

"It must be so, since every one says so. They say that he has certainlygone to Bergamo, but no one knows the place exactly, and there has beenno intelligence from himself. He probably has not been able to find themeans of informing us."

"Oh, if he is in safety, God be thanked!" said Lucy, commencing anothersubject of conversation, which was, however, interrupted by anunexpected event--the arrival of the cardinal archbishop.

After having returned from the church, and having learnt from theUnknown the arrival of Lucy, he had seated himself at table, placing theUnknown on his right hand; the company was composed of a number ofpriests, who gazed earnestly at the countenance of their once formidablecompanion, so softened without weakness, so humbled without meanness,and compared it with the horrible idea they had so long entertained ofhim.

Dinner being over, the Unknown and the cardinal retired together. Aftera long interview, the former departed for his castle, and the lattersent for the curate of the parish, and requested him to conduct him tothe house where Lucy had received an asylum.

"Oh, my lord," replied the curate, "suffer me, suffer me. I will sendfor the young girl and her mother, if she has arrived,--the hoststhemselves, if my lord desires it."

"I wish to go to them myself," replied Frederick.

"There is no necessity that you should inconvenience yourself; I willsend for them immediately," insisted the curate, who did not understandthat, by this visit, the cardinal wished to do honour to misfortune,innocence, hospitality, and to his own ministry. But the superiorrepeating his desire, the inferior bowed, and they proceeded on theirway.

When they appeared in the street, a crowd immediately collected aroundthem. The curate cried, "Come, come, back, keep off."--"But," saidFrederick, "suffer them," and he advanced, now raising his hands to

bless the people, now lowering them to embrace the children, whoobstructed his progress. They reached the house, and entered it, whilstthe crowd remained without. But amidst the throng was the tailor, whohad followed with others; his eyes fixed, and his mouth open, wonderingwhere the cardinal was going. When he beheld him entering his own house,he bustled his way through the crowd, crying out, "Make room for thosewho have a right to enter," and followed into the house.

Agnes and Lucy heard an increasing murmur in the street; and whilst theywere surmising the cause, the door opened, and, behold, the cardinal andthe curate!

"Is this she?" asked the former of the curate, and at a sign in theaffirmative he approached Lucy, who with her mother was standing,motionless and mute with surprise and extreme diffidence: but the tonesof the voice, the countenance, and above all, the words of Frederick,soon removed their embarrassment. "Poor young woman," said he, "God haspermitted you to be subjected to a great trial; but he has also made yousee that he watches over you, and has never forgotten you. He has savedyou, and in addition to that blessing, has made use of you to accomplisha great work through you, to impart the wonders of his grace and mercyto one man, and at the same time to comfort the hearts of many."

Here the mistress of the house entered the room with her husband:perceiving their guests engaged in conversation, they respectfullyretired to a distant part of the apartment. The cardinal bowed to themcourteously, and continued the conversation with Lucy and her mother. Hemixed with the consolation he offered many enquiries, hoping to findfrom their answers some way of rendering them still farther servicesafter their sufferings.

"It is a pity all the clergy were not like your lordship, and then theywould take the part of the poor, and not help to bring them intodifficulty for the sake of drawing themselves out of it," said Agnes,encouraged by the familiar and affable manner of Frederick, and vexedthat Don Abbondio, after having sacrificed others to his ownselfishness, should dare to forbid her making the least complaint to oneso much above him, when by so fortunate a chance the occasion presenteditself.

"Say all that you think," said the cardinal; "speak freely."

"I would say, that if our curate had done his duty, things would nothave been as they are."

The cardinal begging her to explain herself more clearly, she foundsome embarrassment in relating a history, in which she had at one timeplayed a part, which she felt very unwilling to communicate to such aman. However, she got over the difficulty; she related the projectedmarriage, the refusal of Don Abbondio, and the pretext he had offeredwith respect to his _superiors_ (oh, Agnes!); and passing to the attemptof Don Roderick, she told in what manner, being informed of it, they hadbeen able to escape. "But, indeed," added she in conclusion, "it wasescaping to fall into another snare. If the curate had told us sincerelythe difficulty, and had married my poor children, we would have left thecountry immediately, and gone where no one would have known us, not eventhe wind. Thus time was lost, and that which has happened, has

happened."

"The curate shall render me an account of this," said the cardinal.

"No, my lord, no," resumed Agnes. "I did not speak on that account, donot reprove him; because what is done, is done; and it would answer nopurpose. He is a man of such a character, that if the thing were to doover again, he would act precisely in the same way."

But Lucy, dissatisfied with this manner of telling the story, added, "Wehave also been to blame; it is plain that it was the will of God thething should not succeed."

"How can you have been to blame, my poor child?" said Frederick.

Lucy, notwithstanding the winks of her mother, related in her turn thehistory of the attempt made in the house of Don Abbondio, saying, as sheconcluded, "We did wrong, and God has punished us."

"Accept from his hand the chastisement you have endured, and takecourage," said Frederick; "for who has a right to rejoice and hope, ifnot those who have suffered, and who accuse themselves?"

He then asked where was the betrothed; and learning from Agnes (Lucystood silent with downcast eyes) the fact of his flight, he expressedastonishment and displeasure, and asked the reason of it. Agnes toldwhat she knew of the story of Renzo.

"I have heard of him before," said the cardinal; "but how could a man,who was engaged in affairs of this nature, be in treaty of marriage withthis young girl?"

"He was a worthy young man," said Lucy, blushing, but in a firm voice.

"He was a peaceable youth, too peaceable, perhaps," added Agnes; "yourlordship may ask any one if he was not, even the curate. Who knows whatintrigues and plots may have been going on at Milan? There needs littleto make poor people pass for rogues."

"That is but too true," said the cardinal; "I will enquire about him,without doubt." He took a memorandum of the name of the young man,adding that he expected to be at their village in a few days; thatduring his sojourn there, Lucy could return home without fear, and inthe mean while he would procure her an asylum till all was arranged forthe best.

Turning to the master and mistress of the house, they came forward; herenewed the thanks he had addressed to them by the mouth of the curate,and asked them if they would be willing to keep the guests God had sentthem for a few days.

"Oh yes, my lord," replied the dame, with a manner which said more thanthis timid reply; but her husband, quite animated by the presence ofsuch a man, by the desire to do himself honour on an occasion of suchimportance, studied to make a fine answer. He wrinkled his forehead,strained his eyes, and compressed his mouth, but nevertheless felt aconfusion of ideas, which prevented him from uttering a syllable. But

time pressed; the cardinal appeared to have interpreted his silence. Thepoor man opened his mouth, and said, "Imagine----" Not a word more couldhe say. His failure not only filled him with shame on that day, but everafter, the unfortunate recollection intruded itself to mar the pleasureof the great honour he had received. How many times, in thinking of thiscircumstance, did a crowd of words come to his mind, every one of whichwould have been better than "_Imagine!_" But the cavities of our brainsare full enough of thoughts when it is too late to employ them.

The cardinal departed, saying, "May the blessing of Heaven rest on thishouse!"

That evening he asked the curate in what way it would be best toindemnify the tailor, who could not be rich, for his hospitality. Thecurate replied, that truly neither the profits of his trade, nor hisincome from some little fields that the good tailor possessed, would atthis time have enabled him to be liberal to others; but from havingsaved something the few years previous, he was one of the most easy incircumstances in the district; that he could allow himself to exercisesome hospitality without inconvenience, and that he would do it withpleasure; and that he was confident he would be hurt if money wasoffered to him.

"He has probably," said the cardinal, "some demands on people who areunable to pay."

"You may judge, my lord; the poor people pay with the overplus of theharvest; this year there has been no overplus; on the contrary, everyone is behind in point even of necessities."

"Well, I take upon myself all these debts. You will do me the favour toobtain from him the memoranda, and cancel them."

"It may be a very large sum."

"So much the better. And perhaps you have but too many who are moremiserable, having no debts, because they have no credit?"

"Oh yes! indeed too many! they do what they can; but how can they supplytheir wants in these hard times?"

"Have them clothed at my expense; it is true that it seems to be robberyto spend any thing this year, except for bread; but this is a particularcase."

We cannot finish our record of the history of this day without brieflyrelating the conduct of the Unknown. Before his second return to thecastle, the report of his conversion had preceded him; it had spreadthrough the valley, and excited surprise, anxiety, and numerousconjectures. As he approached the castle he made a sign to all the_bravoes_ he met to follow him: filled with unusual apprehension, butwith their accustomed submission, they obeyed; their number increasedevery moment. Reaching the castle, he entered the first court, andthere, resting on his saddle bow, in a voice of thunder he gave a loudcall, the wonted signal which all habitually obeyed. In a moment thosewho were scattered about the castle hastened to join the troop collectedaround their leader.

"Go and wait for me in the great hall," said he; as they departed, hedismounted from his beast, and leading it himself to the stable, thenceapproached the hall. The whispering which was heard among them ceased athis appearance; retiring to one corner they left a large space aroundhim.

The Unknown raised his hand to enforce the silence that his presencealone had already effected; then raising his head, which yet was abovethat of any of his followers, he said, "Listen to me, all of you; andlet no one speak, unless I ask him a question. My friends, the way whichwe have followed until to-day leads to hell. I do not wish to reproachyou, I could not effect the important change, inasmuch as I have beenyour leader in our abominable career; I have been the most guilty ofall; but listen to what I am about to say.

"God in his mercy has called me to a change of life, and I have obeyedhis call. May this same God do as much for you! Know, then, and hold forcertain, that I would rather now die than undertake any thing againsthis holy law. I recall all the iniquitous orders which I may have givenany one of you; you understand me. And farther, I order you to donothing which I have hitherto prescribed to you. Hold equally forcertain, that no one can hereafter commit evil under my protection, andin my service. Those who will remain with me on these conditions, Ishall regard as children. I should be happy, in the day of famine, toshare with them the last mouthful that remained to me. To those who donot wish to continue here, shall be paid what is due of their salaries,and a further donative; they have liberty to depart, but they must neverreturn, unless they repent and intend to lead a new life, and under suchcircumstances they shall be received with open arms. Think of it thisnight; to-morrow morning I will receive your answer, and then I willgive you your orders. Now, every one to his post. May God, who hasshown compassion towards me, incline your hearts to repentance and gooddispositions."

He ceased, and all kept silence. Although strange and tumultuousthoughts fermented in their minds, no indication of them was visible.They had been habituated to listen to the voice of their lord, as to amanifestation of absolute authority, to which it was necessary to yieldimplicit obedience. His will proclaimed itself changed, but notenfeebled: it did not therefore enter their minds, that because he wasconverted they might become bold in his presence, or reply to him asthey would to another man. They regarded him as a saint, indeed, but asaint sword in hand.

In addition to the fear with which he inspired them, they felt for him(especially those who were born in his service, and these were thegreater number) the affection of vassals. Their admiration partook ofthe nature of love, mingled with that respect which the most rebelliousand turbulent spirits feel for a superior, whom they have voluntarilyrecognised as such. The sentiments he expressed were certainly hatefulto their ears, but they knew they were not false, neither were theyentirely strange to them. If their custom had been to make them subjectsof pleasantry, it was not from disbelief of their verity, but to driveaway, by jesting, the apprehensions the contemplation of them mightotherwise have excited. And now, there was none among them who did notfeel some compunction at beholding their power exerted over the

invincible courage of their master. Moreover, some of them had heard theextraordinary intelligence beyond the valley, and had witnessed andrelated the joy of the people, the new feeling with which the Unknownwas regarded by them, the veneration which had succeeded their formerhatred--their former terror. They beheld the man whom they had neverregarded without trembling, even when they themselves constituted, to agreat degree, his strength; they beheld him now, the wonder, the idol ofthe multitude,--still elevated above all others, in a different manner,no doubt, but in one not less imposing,--always above the world, alwaysthe first. They were confounded, and each was doubtful of the course heshould pursue. One reflected hastily where he could find an asylum andemployment; another questioned with himself his power to accommodatehimself to the life of an honest man; another, moved by what he hadsaid, felt some inclination for it; and another still was willing topromise any thing so as to be entitled to the share of a loaf, which hadbeen so cordially proffered, and which was so scarce in those days. Noone, however, broke the silence. The Unknown, at the conclusion of hisspeech, waved his hand imperiously for them to retire: obedient as aflock of sheep, they all quietly left the hall. He followed them, andstopping in the centre of the court, saw them all branch off to theirdifferent stations. He returned into the castle, visited the corridors,halls, and every avenue, and, finding all quiet, he retired tosleep,--yes, to sleep, for he was very sleepy. In spite of all theurgent and intricate affairs in which he was involved, more than at anyformer conjuncture, he was sleepy. Remorse had banished sleep the nightbefore; its voice, so far from being subdued, was still moreabsolute--was louder--yet he was sleepy. The order of his household solong established, the absolute devotion of his faithful followers, hispower and means of exercising it, its various ramifications, and theobjects on which it was employed, all tended to create uncertainty andconfusion in his mind,--still he was sleepy.

To his bed then he went, that bed which the night before had been a bedof thorns; but first he knelt to pray. He sought, in the remotest cornerof his memory, the words of prayer taught him in his days of childhood.They came one by one: an age of vice had not effaced them. And who shalldefine the sentiments that pervaded his soul at this return to thehabits of happy innocence? He slept soundly.

CHAPTER XXV.

The next morning, in the village of Lucy, and throughout all theterritory of Lecco, nothing was talked of but herself, the Unknown, thearchbishop, and another person, who, although generally desirous to betalked of, would willingly have been forgotten on this occasion,--wemean Don Roderick.

Not that, previous to this period, the villagers had not conversed muchof his actions, in secret, to those in whom they had perfect confidence;but now they could no longer contain themselves, nor surpress manyenquiries on the marvellous events in which two persons so famous hadplayed a part. In comparison of these two personages, Signor DonRoderick appeared rather insignificant, and all agreed in rejoicing over

the ill success of his iniquitous designs; but these rejoicings werestill, in some measure, moderated by fears of the _bravoes_ by whom hewas surrounded.

A good portion of the public censure was bestowed on his friends andcourtiers. It did not spare the Signor _Podestà_, always deaf and dumband blind to the deeds of this tyrant, but these opinions were expressedin an under-tone, because the _Podestà_ had his officers. Such regardwas not paid to Doctor _Azzecca Garbugli_, who had only his _tricks_ andhis _verbiage_ to employ for his defence; and as to the whole tribe ofsycophants, resembling him, they were so pointed at, and eyed askance,that for some time they thought it most prudent to keep themselveswithin doors.

Don Roderick, struck, as by a thunderbolt, with the unexpectedintelligence, so different from that which he had been anticipating fromday to day, kept himself shut up in his castle, alone with his bravoes,devouring his rage for the space of two days, and on the third set offfor Milan. If there had only existed the murmurs of the people,notwithstanding things had gone so far, he would perhaps have remainedexpressly to brave them; but he felt himself compelled to quit the fieldof contest, by the certain information that the cardinal was coming tothe village. The count, his uncle, who knew nothing of the story butwhat Attilio had told him, would certainly require him to be one of thefirst to visit the cardinal, in order to obtain in public the mostdistinguished reception from him. The count would require it, because itwas an important opportunity for making known in what esteem the housewas held by his powerful eminence. To escape such a dilemma, DonRoderick, having risen before the sun, threw himself into a carriagewith Griso, and, followed by the rest of the _bravoes_, retired like afugitive, like (if we may be permitted to elevate him by such acomparison), like Catiline from Rome, foaming with rage, and threateninga speedy return to accomplish his revenge.

Meanwhile the cardinal approached, visiting every day one of theparishes situated in the territory of Lecco. On the day he was expectedin the village, great preparations were made for his reception. At theentrance of the village, near the cottage of Agnes, a triumphal arch waserected, constructed of wood, covered with moss and straw, andornamented with green boughs of birch and holly. The front of the churchwas adorned with tapestry; from every window of the houses weresuspended quilts and sheets, intended for drapery; every thing, inshort, whether in good taste or bad, was displayed in honour of thisextraordinary occasion. At the hour of vespers (which was the hourFrederick usually selected to arrive at the churches which he visited),those who had not gone to church, the old men, women, and the youngestof the children, went forth, in procession, to meet their expectedguest, headed by Don Abbondio. The poor curate was sad in the midst ofthe public joy; the tumult bewildered him; the movement of so manypeople, before and behind, disturbed him; and, moreover, he wastormented by the secret apprehension that the women had tattled, andthat he should be obliged to render an account of his conduct to thecardinal.

Frederick appeared at last, or rather the crowd appeared, in the midstof which was his litter, and the retinue surrounding it. The persons whofollowed Don Abbondio scattered and mingled themselves with the crowd,

notwithstanding all his remonstrances; and he, poor man, finding himselfdeserted by them, went to the church, there to await the cardinal'sapproach.

The cardinal advanced, bestowing benedictions with his hands, andreceiving them in return from the mouths of the people, who were withdifficulty kept back by his attendants. Being of the same village asLucy, these peasants were desirous of rendering to the archbishoppeculiar demonstrations of respect, but this was not practicable,inasmuch as, wherever he went, he was received with every possiblehonour. In the very commencement of his pontificate, at his first solemnentrance into the cathedral, the concourse had been so great that hislife was in peril. Some gentlemen, who were near him, drew their swordsto keep back and alarm the crowd. Such was the rude violence of thetimes, that even in the general disposition to do honour to theirarchbishop, they were on the point of crushing him: and this defencewould not have been sufficient, if two priests, of great vigour andpresence of mind, had not raised him in their arms, and carried him fromthe church door to the foot of the great altar. His very first entranceinto the church, therefore, might be recorded amidst his pastorallabours and the dangers he had run.

Entering the church, the cardinal advanced to the altar, and afterhaving prayed some time, he addressed, as was his custom, some words tothe people, on his love for them, on his desire for their salvation, andhow they should dispose their minds for the duties of the morrow. Hethen withdrew to the house of the curate, and among other questionswhich he put to him, he interrogated him with regard to the characterand conduct of Renzo. Don Abbondio replied that he was rather cholericand obstinate: but as the cardinal made more special and preciseenquiries, he was obliged to confess that he was an honest peaceableyouth, and even he himself could not comprehend how he had committed atMilan the conduct which had been imputed to him.

"As to the young girl," continued the cardinal, "do you think she canreturn now with safety to her house?"

"At present," replied Don Abbondio, "she can come and remain for awhile. I say, at present, but," added he with a sigh, "your illustriouslordship should be always near at hand."

"God is always present," said the cardinal. "But I will use my effortsto secure a place of safety for her."

Before dismissing Don Abbondio, he ordered him to send a litter, on thefollowing day, for Lucy and her mother.

Don Abbondio went away quite pleased that the cardinal had talked to himof the young couple, without even alluding to his refusal to marry them."He knows nothing of it," said he; "Agnes has kept silence! wonderful!She will see him again, 'tis true, but she shall have furtherinstructions from me, so she shall." He little thought, poor man, thatFrederick had only deferred the enquiry until he should have moreleisure to learn the reasons of his conduct.

But the solicitude of the good prelate for the disposal of Lucy had beenrendered useless, by a circumstance which we will relate.

The two females had as far as possible resumed, for the few days theyhad to pass under the hospitable roof of the tailor, their usual mannerof life. As she had done at the monastery, Lucy, in a small chamberapart, employed herself in sewing; and Agnes, keeping much at home,remained for the most part with her daughter. Their conversations wereaffectionate and sorrowful; both were prepared for a separation, sincethe sheep could not dwell in the neighbourhood of the wolf. But how longwas this separation to continue? The future was dark and inexplicable,but Agnes, notwithstanding, was full of agreeable anticipation. "Afterall," said she, "if no irreparable misfortune has befallen Renzo, weshall soon hear from him. If he has found employment, (and who can doubtit?) and if he keeps the faith he has sworn to you, why cannot we go andlive with him?" Her daughter felt as much sorrow in listening to herhopes, as difficulty in replying to them. She still kept her secret inher heart; and although troubled at the idea of concealment with so gooda mother, she was nevertheless restrained by a thousand fears fromcommunicating it. Her plans were, indeed, very different from those ofher mother, or rather, she had none, having committed the future intothe hands of Providence; she therefore endeavoured to change thesubject, saying in general terms that her only hope was to bepermanently re-united to her mother.

"Do you know why you feel thus?" said Agnes; "you have suffered so much,that it seems impossible to you that things can turn out happily. Butlet God work; and if---- Let a ray of hope come--a single ray, and thenwe shall see that you will think differently."

Lucy and her mother entertained a lively friendship for their kindhosts, which was warmly reciprocated; and between whom can friendshipexist more in its purity, than between the benefactor and the recipientsof the benefit, when both have kind hearts! Agnes, especially, had longgossips with the mistress of the house, and the tailor afforded themmuch amusement by his tales and moral discourses; at dinner particularlyhe had always something to relate of the sword of Roland, or of theFathers of the Thebaid.

At some miles' distance from the village there dwelt a certain DonFerrante, and Donna Prassede his wife; the latter was a woman of highbirth, somewhat advanced in age, and exceedingly inclined to do good;which is surely the most praiseworthy employment one can be engaged onin this world; but which, indulged in without judgment, may be renderedhurtful, like all other good things. To do good, we must have correctideas of good in itself considered, and this can be acquired only bycontrol over our own hearts. Donna Prassede governed herself with herideas, as some do with their friends; she had very few, but to these shewas much attached. Among these few, were a number unfortunately a littlenarrow and unreasonable, and they were not those she loved the least.Thence it happened that she regarded things as good, which were notreally so, and that she used means which were calculated to promote thevery opposite of that which she intended; to this perversion of herintellect may also be attributed the fact, that she esteemed allmeasures to be lawful to her who was bent on the performance of duty. Inshort, with good intentions, her moral perceptions were in no smalldegree distorted. Hearing the wonderful story of Lucy, she was seizedwith a desire to know her, and immediately sent her carriage for themother and daughter. Lucy, having no desire to go, requested the tailor

to find some excuse for her; if they had been _common people_, whodesired to make her acquaintance, the tailor would willingly haverendered her the service, but, under such circumstances, refusalappeared to him a species of insult. He uttered so many exclamations,such as, that it was not customary--that it was a high family--that itwas out of the question to say _No_ to such people--that it might maketheir fortune--and that, in addition to all this, Donna Prassede was asaint,--that Lucy was finally obliged to yield, especially as Agnesseconded the remonstrances and arguments of the tailor.

The high-born dame received them with many congratulations; shequestioned and advised them with an air of conscious superiority, whichwas, however, tempered by so many soft and humble expressions, andmingled with so much zeal and devotion, that Agnes and Lucy soon feltthemselves relieved from the painful restraint her mere presence had atfirst imposed on them. In brief, Donna Prassede, learning that thecardinal wished to procure an asylum for Lucy, and impelled by thedesire to second, and at the same time to anticipate, his goodintention, offered to take the young girl to her house, where therewould be no other service required of her than to direct the labours ofthe needle or the spindle. She added, that she herself would inform thecardinal of the arrangement.

Besides the obvious and ordinary benefit conferred by her invitation,Donna Prassede proposed to herself another, which she deemed to bepeculiarly important; this was to school impatience, and to place in theright path a young creature who had much need of guidance. The firsttime she heard Lucy spoken of, she was immediately persuaded that in oneso young, who had betrothed herself to a robber, a criminal, a fugitivefrom justice such as Renzo, there must be some corruption, someconcealed vice. "_Tell me what company you keep, and I will tell you whoyou are._" The visit of Lucy had confirmed her opinion; she appeared,indeed, to be an artless girl, but who could tell the cause of herdowncast looks and timid replies? There was no great effort of mindnecessary to perceive that the maiden had opinions of her own. Herblushes, sighs, and particularly her large and beautiful eyes, did notplease Donna Prassede at all. She regarded it as certain as if she hadbeen told it by having authority, that the misfortunes of Lucy were apunishment from Heaven for her connection with that villain, and awarning to withdraw herself from him entirely. That settled thedetermination to lend her co-operation to further so desirable a work;for as she frequently said to herself and others, "Was it not herconstant study to second the will of Heaven?" But, alas! she often fellinto the terrible mistake of taking for the will of Heaven, the vainimaginings of her own brain. However, she was on the present occasionvery careful not to exhibit any of her proposed intentions. It was oneof her maxims, that the first rule to be observed in accomplishing agood design, is to keep your motives to yourself.

Excepting the painful necessity of separation the offer appeared to bothmother and daughter very inviting, were it only on account of the shortdistance from the castle to their village. Reading in each other'scountenance their mutual assent, they accepted with many thanks thekindness of Donna Prassede, who renewing her kind promises, said shewould soon send them a letter to present to the cardinal. The twofemales having departed, she requested Don Ferrante to write a letter,who, being a literary and learned man, was employed as her secretary on

occasions of importance. In an affair of this sort, Don Ferrante did hisbest, and he gave the original to his wife in order that she could copyit; he warmly recommended to her an attention to the orthography, asorthography was among the great number of things he had studied, andamong the small number over which he had control in his family. Theletter was forthwith copied and sent to the tailor's house. These eventsoccurred a few days before the cardinal had despatched a litter to bringthe mother and daughter to their abode.

Upon their arrival they went to the parsonage; orders having been leftfor their immediate admittance to the presence of the cardinal. Thechaplain, who conducted them thither, gave them many instructions withregard to the ceremony to be used with him, and the titles to be givenhim; it was a continual torment to the poor man to behold the littleceremony that reigned around the good archbishop in this respect. "Thisresults," he was accustomed to say, "from the excessive goodness of thisblessed man--from his great familiarity." And he added that he had "evenheard people address him with _Yes, sir_, and _No, sir_!"

At this moment, the cardinal was conversing with Don Abbondio on theaffairs of his parish; so that the latter had no opportunity to repeathis instructions to the females; however, in passing by them as theyentered, he gave them a glance, to make them comprehend that he was wellsatisfied with them, and that they should continue, like honest andworthy women, to keep silence.

After the first reception, Agnes drew from her bosom the letter of DonnaPrassede, and gave it to the cardinal, saying, "It is from the SignoraDonna Prassede, who says that she knows your illustrious lordship well,my lord, as naturally is the case with great people. When you have read,you will see."

"It is well," said Frederick, after having read the letter, andextracted its meaning from the trash of Don Ferrante's flowers ofrhetoric. He knew the family well enough to be certain that Lucy hadbeen invited into it with good intentions, and that she would besheltered from the snares and violence of her persecutor. As to hisopinion of Donna Prassede, we do not know it precisely; probably she wasnot a person he would have chosen for Lucy's protectress; but it was nothis habit to undo things, apparently ordered by Providence, in order todo them better.

"Submit, without regret, to this separation also, and to the suspense inwhich you are left," said he. "Hope for the best, and confide in God!and be persuaded, that all that He sends you, whether of joy or sorrow,will be for your permanent good." Having received the benediction whichhe bestowed on them, they took their leave.

Hardly had they reached the street, when they were surrounded by a swarmof friends, who were expecting them, and who conducted them in triumphto their house. Their female acquaintances congratulated them,sympathised with them, and overwhelmed them with enquiries. Learningthat Lucy was to depart on the following morning, they broke forth inexclamations of regret and disappointment. The men disputed with eachother the privilege of offering their services; each wished to remainfor the night to guard their cottage, which reminds us of a proverb;"_If you would have people willing to confer favours on you, be sure not

to need them._" This warmth of reception served a little to withdrawLucy from the painful recollections which crowded upon her mind, at thesight of her loved home.

At the sound of the bell which announced the commencement of theceremonies, all moved towards the church. The ceremonies over, DonAbbondio, who had hastened home to see every thing arranged forbreakfast, was told that the cardinal wished to speak with him. Heproceeded to the chamber of his illustrious guest, who accosted him ashe entered, with "Signor Curate, why did you not unite in marriage, Lucyto her betrothed?"

"They have emptied the sack this morning," thought Don Abbondio, and hestammered forth, "Your illustrious lordship has no doubt heard of allthe difficulties of that business. It has been such an intricate affair,that it cannot even now be seen into clearly. Your illustrious lordshipknows that the young girl is here, only by a miracle; and that no onecan tell where the young man is."

"I ask if it is true, that, before these unhappy events, you refused tocelebrate the marriage on the day agreed upon? and why you did so?"

"Truly--if your illustrious lordship knew--what terrible orders Ireceived--" and he stopped, indicating by his manner, thoughrespectfully, that it would be imprudent in the cardinal to enquirefarther.

"But," said Frederick, in a tone of much more gravity than he wasaccustomed to employ, "it is your bishop, who, from a sense of duty, andfor your own justification, would learn from you, why you have not donethat which, in the ordinary course of events, it was your strict duty todo?"

"My lord," said Don Abbondio, "I do not mean to say,--but it appears tome, that as these things are now without remedy, it is useless to stirthem up--However, however, I say, that I am sure your illustriouslordship would not betray a poor curate, because, you see, my lord, yourillustrious lordship cannot be every where present, and I--I remainhere, exposed--However, if you order me, I will tell all."

"Speak; I ask for nothing but to find you free from blame."

Don Abbondio then related his melancholy story, suppressing the name ofthe principal personage, and substituting in its place, "_a greatlord_,"--thus giving to prudence the little that was left him in such anextremity.

"And you had no other motive?" asked the cardinal, after having heardhim through.

"Perhaps I have not clearly explained myself. It was under pain of deaththat they ordered me not to perform the ceremony."

"And this reason appeared sufficient to prevent the fulfilment of arigorous duty?"

"I know my obligation is to do my duty, even to my greatest detriment;

but when life is at stake----"

"And when you presented yourself to the church," said Frederick, withincreased severity of manner, "to be admitted to the holy ministry, werethere any such reservations made? Were you told that the duties imposedby the ministry were free from every obstacle, exempt from every peril?Were you told that personal safety was to be the guide and limit of yourduty? Were you not told expressly the reverse of all this? Were you notwarned that you were sent as a lamb among wolves? Did you not even thenknow that there were violent men in the world, who would oppose you inthe performance of your duty? He, whose example should be our guide, inimitation of whom we call ourselves shepherds, when he came on earth toaccomplish the designs of his benevolence, did he pay regard to his ownsafety? And if your object be to preserve your miserable existence, atthe expense of charity and duty, there was no necessity for yourreceiving holy unction, and entering into the priesthood. The worldimparts this virtue, teaches this doctrine. What do I say? O shame! theworld itself rejects it. It has likewise its laws, which prescribe good,and prohibit evil; it has also its gospel, a gospel of pride and hatred,which will not admit the love of life to be offered as a plea for thetransgression of its laws. It commands, and is obeyed; but we, wechildren and messengers of the promise! what would become of the church,if your language was held by all your brethren? Where would she now be,if she had originally come forth with such doctrines?"

Don Abbondio hung down his head; he felt under the weight of thesearguments as a chicken under the talons of a hawk, who holds himsuspended in an unknown region, in an atmosphere he had never beforebreathed. Seeing that a reply was necessary, he said, more alarmed thanconvinced,--

"My lord, I have done wrong; since we should pay no regard to life, Ihave nothing more to say. But when one has to do with certain powerfulpeople, who will not listen to reason, I do not see what is to be gainedby carrying things with a high hand."

"And know you not that our gain is to suffer for the sake of justice? Ifyou are ignorant of this, what is it you preach? What do you teach? Whatis the _good news_ which you proclaim to the poor? Who has required thisat your hand, to overcome force by force? Certainly you will not beasked at the day of judgment, if you have vanquished the powerful, foryou have neither had the commission nor the means to do so. But, you_will_ be asked, if you have employed the means which have been placedin your power, to do that which was prescribed to you, even when man hadthe temerity to forbid it."

"These saints are odd creatures," thought Don Abbondio; "extract theessence of this discourse, and it will be found that he has more atheart the love of two young people, than the life of a priest." He wouldhave been delighted to have had the conversation terminate here, but hewell perceived that such was not the intention of the cardinal, whoappeared to be waiting a reply, or apology, or something of the kind.

"I say, my lord," replied he, "that I have done wrong--We cannot giveourselves courage."

"And why, then, I might say to you, have you undertaken a ministry which

imposes on you the task of warring with the passions of the world? But,I will rather say, how is it that you have forgotten, that where courageis necessary to fulfil the obligations of this holy vocation, the MostHigh would assuredly impart it to you, were you earnestly to implore it?Do you think the millions of martyrs had courage naturally? that theyhad naturally a contempt for life, young Christians who had just begunto taste its charms, children, mothers! All had courage, simply becausecourage was necessary, and they trusted in God to impart it. Knowingyour own weakness, have you ever thought of preparing yourself for thedifficult situations in which you might be placed? Ah! if, during somany years of pastoral care, you had loved your flock, (and how couldyou refrain from loving them?) if you had reposed in them youraffections, your dearest cares, your greatest delights, you would nothave failed in courage: love is intrepid; if you had loved those whowere committed to your spiritual guardianship, those whom you callchildren--if you had really loved them, when you beheld two of themthreatened at the same time with yourself. Ah! certainly, charity wouldhave made you tremble for them, as the weakness of the flesh made youtremble for yourself. You would have humbled yourself before God forthe first risings of selfish terror; you would have considered it atemptation, and have implored strength to resist it. But, you would haveeagerly listened to the holy and noble anxiety for the safety of others,for the safety of your children; you would have been unable to find amoment of repose; you would have been impelled, constrained to do allthat you could to avert the evil that threatened them. With what thenhas this love, this anxiety, inspired you? What have you done for them?How have you been engaged in their service?"

And he paused for a reply.

CHAPTER XXVI.

Don Abbondio uttered not a word. It must be confessed that we ourselves,who have nothing to fear but the criticisms of our readers, feel adegree of repugnance in thus urging the unfashionable precepts ofcharity, courage, indefatigable solicitude for others, and unlimitedsacrifice of self. But the reflection that these things were said by aman who practised what he preached, encourages us to proceed in ourrelation.

"You do not answer," resumed the cardinal. "Ah! if you had followed thedictates of charity and duty, whatever had been the result, you wouldnow have been at no loss for a reply. Behold, then, what you have done;you having obeyed iniquity, regardless of the requirements of duty; youhave obeyed her promptly; she had only to show herself to you, andsignify her desire, and she found you ready at her call. But she wouldhave had recourse to artifice with one who was on his guard against her,she would have avoided exciting his suspicion, she would have employedconcealment, that she might mature at leisure her projects of treacheryand violence; she has, on the contrary, boldly ordered you to infringeyour duty, and keep silence; you have obeyed, you have infringed it,and you have kept silence. I ask you now, if you have done nothing more.Tell me if it is true, that you have advanced false pretences for your

refusal, so as not to reveal the true motive----"

"They have told this also, the tattlers!" thought Don Abbondio, but ashe gave no indication of addressing himself to speech, the cardinalpursued,--"Is it true, that you told these young people falsehoods tokeep them in ignorance and darkness?--I am compelled, then, to believeit; it only remains for me to blush for you, and to hope that you willweep with me. Behold where it has led you, (merciful God! and youadvanced it as a justification!) behold to what it has conducted you,this solicitude for your life! It has led you----(repel freely theassertion if it appear to you unjust: take it as a salutary humiliationif it is not) it has led you to deceive the feeble and unfortunate, tolie to your children!"

"This is the way of the world!" thought Don Abbondio again; "to thisdevil incarnate," (referring to the Unknown,) "his arms around his neck;and to me, for a half lie, reproaches without end! But you are oursuperiors; of course you are right. It is my star, that all the world isagainst me, not excepting the saints." He continued aloud,--"I have donewrong! I see that I have done wrong. But what could I do in soembarrassing a situation?"

"Do you still ask? Have I not told you? And must I repeat it? You shouldhave loved, my son, you should have loved and prayed; you would thenhave felt that iniquity might threaten, but not enforce obedience; youwould have united, according to the laws of God, those whom man desiredto separate; you would have exercised the ministry these children had aright to expect from you. God would have been answerable for theconsequences, as you were obeying His orders; now, since you have obeyedman, the responsibility falls on yourself. And what consequences, justHeaven! And why did you not remember that you had a superior? How wouldhe now dare to reprimand you for having failed in your duty, if he didnot at all times feel himself obliged to aid you in its performance? Whydid you not inform your bishop of the obstacles which infamous powerexerted to prevent the exercise of your ministry?"

"Just the advice of Perpetua," thought Don Abbondio vexed, to whosemind, even in the midst of these touching appeals, the images which mostfrequently presented themselves, were those of the bravoes and DonRoderick, alive and well, and returning at some future time, triumphant,and inflamed with rage. Although the presence, the aspect, and thelanguage of the cardinal embarrassed him, and impressed him with adegree of apprehension, it was, however, an embarrassment and anapprehension which did not subjugate his thoughts, nor prevent him fromreflecting that, after all, the cardinal employed neither arms norbravoes.

"Why did you not think," pursued Frederick, "that if no other asylum wasopen to these innocent victims, I could myself receive them, and placethem in safety, if you had sent them to me; sent them afflicted anddesolate to their bishop; as therefore belonging to him, as the mostprecious part, I say not of his charge, but of his wealth! And as foryou, I should have been anxious for you; I would not have slept untilcertain that not a hair of your head would be touched; and do you notsuppose that this man, however audacious he may be, would have lostsomething of his audacity, when convinced that his designs were known byme, that I watched over them, and that I was decided to employ for your

defence all the means within my power! Know you not, that if manpromises too often more than he performs, he threatens also more than hedare execute? Know you not that iniquity does not depend solely on itsown strength, but on the credulity and cowardice of others?"

"Just the reasoning of Perpetua," thought Don Abbondio, withoutconsidering that this singular coincidence in judgment of FrederickBorromeo and his servant, was an additional argument against him.

"But you," pursued the cardinal, "you have only contemplated your owndanger. How is it possible that your personal safety can have appearedof importance enough to sacrifice every thing to it?"

"Because I saw them, I saw those frightful faces," escaped from DonAbbondio. "I heard those horrible words. Your illustrious worship talkswell, but you should have been in the place of your poor priest, andhave had the same thing happen to you."

No sooner had he uttered these words than he bit his tongue, perceivingthat he had suffered himself to be overcome by vexation; he muttered ina low voice, "Now for the storm!" and raising his eyes timidly, he wasastonished to see the cardinal, whom he never could comprehend, passfrom the severe air of authority and rebuke, to that of a soft andpensive gravity.

"It is but too true," said Frederick. "Such is our terrible andmiserable condition! We exact rigorously from others, that which it maybe we would not be willing to render ourselves; we judge, correct, andreprimand, and God alone knows what we would do in the same situation,what we _have_ done in similar situations. But, woe be to me, if I takemy weakness for the measure of another's duty, for the rule of myinstruction! Nevertheless it is certain, that while imparting precepts,I should also afford an example to my neighbour, and not resemble thepharisee, who imposes on others enormous burthens, which he himselfwould not so much as touch with his finger. Hear me then, my son, mybrother; the errors of those in authority, are oftener better known toothers than to themselves; if you know that I have, from cowardice, orrespect to the opinions of men, neglected any part of my duty, tell meof it frankly, so that where I have failed in example, I may at leastnot be wanting in humble confession. Show me freely my weakness, andthen words from my mouth will be more available, because you will beconscious that they do not proceed from me, but that they are the wordsof Him who can give to us both the necessary strength to do what Heprescribes."

"Oh! what a holy man, but what a troublesome one!" thought Don Abbondio."He censures himself, and wishes that I should examine, criticise, andcontrol even _his_ actions!" He continued aloud,--"Oh! my lord jests,surely! Who does not know the courage and indefatigable zeal of yourillustrious lordship?" "Yes," added he to himself, "by far tooindefatigable!"

"I do not desire praise that makes me tremble, because God knows myimperfections, and what I know of them myself is sufficient to humbleme. But I would desire that we should humble ourselves together; I woulddesire that you should feel what your conduct has been, and that yourlanguage is opposed to the law you preach, and according to which you

will be judged."

"All turns against me. But these persons who have told your lordshipthese things, have they not also told you that they introducedthemselves treacherously into my house, for the purpose of compelling meto perform the marriage ceremony, in a manner unauthorised by thechurch?"

"They _have_ told me, my son; but what afflicts and depresses me, is tosee you still seeking excuses; still excusing yourself by accusingothers; still accusing others of that which should have formed a part ofyour own confession. Who placed these unfortunates, I do not say underthe necessity, but under the temptation, to do what they have? Wouldthey have sought this irregular method, if the legitimate way had notbeen closed to them? Would they have thought of laying snares for theirpastor, if they had been received, aided, and advised by him? ofsurprising him, if he had not concealed himself? And you wish to makethem bear the blame; and you are indignant that, after so manymisfortunes, what do I say? in the very midst of misfortune, they havesuffered a word of complaint to escape before their pastor and yours?that the complaints of the oppressed and the afflicted should be hatefulto the world, is not astonishing; but to us! and what advantage wouldtheir silence have been to you? Would you have been the gainer fromtheir cause having been committed entirely to the judgment of God? Is itnot an additional reason to love them, that they have afforded you theoccasion to hear the sincere voice of your pastor; that they haveprovided for you the means to understand more clearly, and quite as faras may be in your power, the great debt you have contracted to them? Ah!if they had even been the aggressors, I would tell you to love them forthat very reason. Love them, because they have suffered, and do suffer;love them, because they are a part of your flock, because you yourselfhave need of pardon and of their prayers."

Don Abbondio kept silence, but no longer from vexation, and anunwillingness to be persuaded; he kept silence from having more thingsto think of than to say. The words which he heard were unexpectedconclusions, a new application of familiar doctrine. The evil done tohis neighbour, which apprehension on his own account had hithertoprevented him from beholding in its true light, now made a novel andstriking impression on his mind. If he did not feel all the remorsewhich the cardinal's remonstrances were calculated to produce, heexperienced at least secret dissatisfaction with himself and pity forothers; a blending of tenderness and shame; as, if we may be permittedto use the comparison, a humid and crushed taper at first hisses andsmokes, but by degrees receives warmth, and imparts light, from theflame of a great torch to which it is presented. Don Abbondio would haveloudly accused himself, and deplored his conduct, had not the idea ofDon Roderick still obtruded itself into his thoughts; however, hisfeeling was sufficiently apparent to convince the cardinal that hiswords had at last produced some effect.

"Now," pursued Frederick, "one of these unfortunate beings is a fugitiveafar off, the other on the point of departure; both have but too muchreason to keep asunder, without any present probability of beingre-united. Now, alas! they have no need of you; now, alas! you have nolonger the opportunity to do them good, and our short foresight canassure us of but little of the future. But who knows, if God in his

compassion is not preparing the occasion for you? Ah! do not let itescape; seek it, watch for it, implore it as a blessing."

"I shall not fail, my lord--I shall not fail to do so, I assure you,"replied Don Abbondio, in a tone that came from the heart.

"Ah! yes, my son, yes!" cried Frederick with affectionate dignity;"Heaven knows that I would have desired to hold other converse with you.We have both had a long pilgrimage through life. Heaven knows howpainful it has been to me, to grieve your old age by reproaches; howmuch more I should have loved to occupy the time of this interview inmutual consolation, and mutual anticipation of the heavenly hope whichis so near our grasp! God grant that the language I have been obliged tohold may be useful to both of us! Act in such a manner, that He will notcall me to account on the great and terrible day, for having retainedyou in a ministry of which you were unworthy. Let us redeem the time;the night is far spent; the spouse will not linger; let us keep ourlamps trimmed and burning. Let us offer to God our poor and miserablehearts, that he may fill them with his love!" So saying he arose todepart; Don Abbondio followed him.

We must now return to Donna Prassede, who came, according to agreement,on the following morning, for Lucy, and also to pay her duty to thecardinal. Frederick bestowed many praises on Lucy, and recommended herwarmly to the kindness of Donna Prassede; Lucy separated herself fromher mother with many tears, and again bade farewell to her cottage andher village. But she was cheered by the hope of seeing her mother oncemore before their final departure, as Donna Prassede informed them thatit was her intention to remain for a few days at her villa, and Agnespromised to visit it again to take a last farewell.

The cardinal was on the point of setting out for another parish, whenthe curate of the village near which the castle of the Unknown wassituated, demanded permission to see him. He presented a small packet,and a letter from that lord, in which Frederick was requested to presentto Lucy's mother a hundred crowns of gold, to serve as a dowry for themaiden, or for any other purpose she might desire. The Unknown alsorequested him to tell them, that if ever they should be in need of hisservices, the poor girl knew but too well the place of his abode, and asfor him, he should consider it a high privilege to afford herprotection and assistance. The cardinal sent immediately for Agnes, andinformed her of the commission he had received. She heard it with equalsurprise and joy.

"God reward this signor!" said she; "your illustrious lordship willthank him in our name, but do not say a word of the matter to any one,because we live in a world--you will excuse me, I know a man like yourlordship does not tattle about such things, but--you understand me."

Returning to her house, she shut herself up in her chamber, and untiedthe packet; although she was prepared for the sight, she was filled withwonder at seeing in her own power and in one heap such a quantity ofthose coins which she had rarely ever seen before, and never more thanone at a time. She counted them over and over again, and wrapping themcarefully in a leather covering, concealed them under one corner of herbed. The rest of the day was employed in reverie and projects for thefuture, and desires for the arrival of the morrow; the night was passed

in restless dreams, and vain imaginings of the blessings to be producedby this gold; at break of day, she arose, and departed for the villa ofDonna Prassede.

The repugnance Lucy had felt to mention her vow, had not all diminished,but she resolved to overcome it, and to disclose the circumstance to hermother in this conversation, which would probably be the last theyshould have for a long time.

No sooner were they left alone, than Agnes, with an animatedcountenance, but in a low voice, said, "I have great news to tell you,"and she related her unexpected good fortune.

"God bless this signor," said Lucy; "you have now enough to livecomfortably yourself, and also to benefit others."

"Oh! yes, we can do a great deal with this money! Listen, I have onlyyou, that is, I have only you two in the world, for from the moment thatRenzo first addressed you, I have considered him as my son. We will hopethat no misfortune has befallen him, and that we shall soon hear fromhim. As for myself, I would have wished to lay my bones in my owncountry, but now that you cannot stay here on account of this villain,(oh! even to think that he was near me, would make me dislike anyplace!) I am quite willing to go away. I would have gone with you to theend of the earth before this good fortune, but how could we do itwithout money? The poor youth had indeed saved a few pence, of which thelaw deprived him, but in recompence God has sent us a fortune. So then,when he has informed us that he is living, and where he is, and what arehis intentions, I will go to Milan for you--yes, I will go for you.Formerly I would not have dreamt of such a thing, but misfortune givescourage and experience. I have been to Monza, and I know what it is totravel. I will take with me a man of resolution; for instance, Alessiodi Maggianico; I will pay the expense, and--do you understand?"

But perceiving that Lucy, instead of exhibiting sympathy with her plans,could with difficulty conceal her agitation and distress, she stopped inthe midst of her harangue, exclaiming, "What is the matter? are you notof my opinion?"

"My poor mother!" cried Lucy, throwing her arms around her neck, andconcealing on her bosom her face, bathed in tears.

"What is the matter?" said Agnes, in alarm.

"I ought to have told you sooner, but I had not the heart to do it. Havepity on me."

"But speak, speak then."

"I cannot be the wife of that unfortunate youth."

"Why? how?"

Lucy, with downcast looks and flowing tears, confessed at last the vowwhich she had made. She clasped her hands, and asked pardon of hermother for having concealed it from her, conjuring her to speak of it tono one, and to lend her aid to enable her to fulfil it.

Agnes was overwhelmed with consternation; she would have been angry withher daughter for so long maintaining silence towards her, had not thegrave thoughts that the circumstance itself excited, stifled all feelingof resentment. She would have blamed her for her vow, had it notappeared to her to be contending against Heaven; for Lucy described toher again, in more lively colours than before, that horrible night, herutter desolation, and unexpected preservation! Agnes listenedattentively; and a hundred examples that she had often heard related,that she _herself_ even had related to her daughter, of strange andhorrible punishments for violated vows, came to her memory. "And whatwilt thou do now?" said she.

"It is with the Lord that care rests; the Lord and the holy Virgin. Ihave placed myself in their hands; they have never yet abandoned me,they will not abandon me now that----The favour I ask of God, the onlyfavour, after the safety of my soul, is to be restored to you, mybeloved mother! He will grant it, yes, he will grant it. That fatalday----in the carriage----Oh! most holy Virgin! Those men----who wouldhave thought I should be the next day with you?"

"But why not tell your mother at once?"

"Forgive me, I had not the heart----What use was there in afflicting yousooner?"

"And Renzo?" said Agnes, shaking her head.

"Ah!" cried Lucy, starting, "I must think no more of the poor youth. Godhas not intended----You see it appears to be his will that we shouldseparate. And who knows?----But no, no; the Lord will preserve him fromevery danger, and render him, perhaps, happier without me."

"But, nevertheless, if you had not bound yourself for ever, provided nomisfortune has happened to Renzo, with this money, I would have found aremedy for all our other evils."

"But, my mother, would this money have been ours if I had not passedthat terrible night? It is God's will that all should be thus; his willbe done!" And her voice became inarticulate through tears.

At this unexpected argument, Agnes maintained a mournful silence. Aftersome moments, Lucy, suppressing her sobs, resumed,--"Now that the thingis done, we must submit cheerfully; and you, dear mother, you can aidme, first in praying to the Lord for your poor daughter, and then it isnecessary that Renzo should know it. When you ascertain where he is,have him written to, find a man,--your cousin Alessio, for instance, whois prudent and kind, who has always wished us well, and who will nottattle. Make Alessio write to him, and inform him of the circumstance asit occurred, where I was, and how I suffered; tell him that God hasordered it thus, and that he must set his heart at rest; that, as forme, I can never be united to any one. Make him understand the matterclearly; when he knows that I have promised the Virgin----he always hasbeen pious----And you, as soon as you hear from him, get some one towrite to me, let me know that he is safe and well----and, nothing more."

Agnes, with much emotion, assured her daughter that all should be done

as she desired.

"I would say something more; that which has befallen the poor youth,would never have occurred to him, if he had never thought of me. He is awanderer, a fugitive; he has lost all his little savings; he has beendeprived of every thing he possessed, poor fellow! and you know why--andwe, we have so much money! Oh! mother, since the Lord has sent uswealth, and since the unfortunate----you regard him as your son, do younot? Ah! divide it, share it with him! Endeavour to find a safe man, andsend him the half of it. God knows how much he may need it!"

"That is just what I was thinking of," replied Agnes. "Yes, I will do itcertainly. Poor youth! And why did you think I was so pleased with themoney, if it were not----but--I came here well pleased,'tis true; but,since matters are so, I will send it to him. Poor youth! he also----Iknow what I mean. Certainly money gives pleasure to those who have needof it; but this money--Ah! it is not this that will make him prosper."

Lucy returned thanks to her mother for her prompt and liberal accordancewith her request, so fervently, that an observer would have imagined herheart to be still devoted to Renzo, more than she herself was aware of.

"And without thee, what shall I do--I, thy poor mother?" said Agnes,weeping in her turn.

"And I, without you, my dear mother? and in a house of strangers, atMilan? But the Lord will be with us both, and will re-unite us. In eightor nine months we shall see each other again; let us leave it to him. Iwill incessantly implore this favour from the Virgin; if I had any thingmore to offer her, I would not hesitate; but she is so compassionate,she will surely grant my prayer."

The mother and daughter parted with many tears, promising to see eachother again, the coming autumn, at the latest, as if it depended onthemselves!

A long time elapsed before Agnes heard any thing of Renzo; neithermessage nor letter was received from him; the people of the village wereas ignorant concerning him as herself.

She was not the only one whose enquiries had been fruitless; it was nota mere ceremony in the cardinal Frederick, when he promised Lucy andAgnes, to inform himself of the history and fate of Renzo; he fulfilledthat promise, by writing immediately to Bergamo for the purpose. Whileat Milan, on his return from visiting his diocese, he received a reply,in which he was informed that little was known of the young man; that hehad made, it was true, a short sojourn in such a place, but that onemorning he had suddenly disappeared; that a relation of his, with whomhe had lived while there, knew not what had become of him; he thoughtthat he had probably enlisted for the Levant, or had passed intoGermany, or, which was most likely, that he had perished in crossing theriver. It was added, however, that should any more definite intelligencebe received concerning him, his illustrious lordship should immediatelybe informed of it.

These reports eventually travelled to Lecco, and reached the ears ofAgnes. The poor woman did her best to ascertain the truth of them; but

she was kept in a state of suspense and anxiety by the contradictoryaccounts which were given, and which were, in fact, all withoutfoundation.

The governor of Milan, lieutenant-general under Don Gonzalo Fernandez deCordova, had complained bitterly to the lord resident of Venice atMilan, that a robber, a villain, an instigator of pillage and massacre,the famous Lorenzo Tramaglino, had been received in the Bergamascanterritory. The resident replied, that he knew nothing of the matter, butthat he would write to Venice for information concerning it, in order togive some explanation to his Excellency.

It was a maxim at Venice to encourage the tendency of the Milaneseworkmen in silk, to establish themselves in the Bergamascan territory,by making them find it to their advantage to do so. For this reason,Bortolo was warned confidentially, that Renzo was not safe in hispresent residence, and that he would do wisely to place him in someother manufactory, and even cause him to change his name for a while.Bortolo, who was quick of apprehension, made no objections, related thematter to his cousin, and taking him to another place fifteen miles off,he presented him, under the name of _Antonio Rivolta_, to the master ofthe manufactory, who was a native of Milan, and moreover his oldacquaintance. He, although the times were hard, did not require muchentreaty to induce him to receive a workman so warmly recommended by anold friend. He saw reason afterwards to congratulate himself on theacquisition, although, at first, the young man appeared rather heedless,because, when they called _Antonio_, he scarcely ever answered.

A short time after, an order arrived from Venice to the captain ofBergamo, to inform himself, and send word to government, whether therewas not within his jurisdiction, and particularly in such a village,such an individual. The captain having obeyed in the best manner hecould, transmitted a reply in the negative, which was transmitted to theresident at Milan, in order that he should transmit it to Don GonzaloFernandez de Cordova.

There were not wanting inquisitive people, who enquired of Bortolo whythe young man had left him. The first time the question was put to him,he simply replied, "He has disappeared." To relieve himself, however,from the most persevering, he framed the stories we have alreadyrelated, at the same time offering them as mere reports that he hadheard; without, however, placing much reliance on them.

But when enquiry came to be made by order of the cardinal, or rather, byorder of some great person, as his name was not mentioned, Bortolobecame more uneasy, and judged it prudent to maintain his ordinarymethod of reply, with this addition, that he gave to the stories he hadfabricated an air of greater verity and plausibility.

We must not conclude, however, that Don Gonzalo had any personal disliketo our poor mountaineer; we must not conclude that, informed perhaps ofhis disrespect and ill-timed jests upon his _Moorish king enchained bythe throat_, he wished to wreak his vengeance on him, nor that heconsidered him a person dangerous enough to be pursued even in hisflight, as was Hannibal by the Roman senate. Don Gonzalo had too manythings to think of, to trouble himself with the actions of Renzo, and ifhe appeared to do so, it was the result of a singular concurrence of

circumstances; by which the poor fellow, without wishing it, or evenknowing why, found himself attached, as by an invisible thread, tonumerous and important affairs.

CHAPTER XXVII.

We have had occasion to mention more than once a war which was thenfermenting, for the succession to the states of the Duke VincenzoGonzaga, the second of the name; we have said that, at the death of thisduke, his nearest heir, Carlos Gonzaga, chief of a younger branchtransplanted to France, where he possessed the duchies of Nevers andRhetel, had entered into possession of Mantua and Montferrat; theSpanish minister, who wished, at any price, to exclude from these twofiefs the new prince, and wanted some pretence to advance for hisexclusion, had declared his intention to support the claims upon Mantuaof another Gonzaga, Ferrante, Prince of Guastalla; and those uponMontferrat of Carlos Emanuel the First, Duke of Savoy, and MargheritaGonzaga, Duchess dowager of Lorraine. Don Gonzalo, who was descendedfrom the great captain whose name he bore, had already made war inFlanders; and as he was desirous beyond measure to direct one in Italy,he made the greatest efforts to promote it. By interpreting theintentions, and by going beyond the orders of the minister, he had, inthe mean time, concluded with the Duke of Savoy a treaty for theinvasion and division of Montferrat; and easily obtained theratification of it, by the count duke, by persuading him that theacquisition of Casale, which was the point the best defended, of theportion granted to the King of Spain, was extremely easy. However, hestill continued to protest, in the name of his sovereign, that hedesired to occupy the country only as a trust, until the decision of theemperor should be declared. But in the meantime the emperor, influencedby others as well as by motives of his own, had refused the investitureto the new duke, and ordered him to leave in sequestration, the stateswhich had been the subject of contention; promising, after he shouldhave heard both parties, to give it to the one whom he should deemjustly entitled to it. The Duke of Nevers would not submit to theseconditions.

The duke had high and powerful friends, being supported by the CardinalRichelieu, the senate of Venice, and the pope. But the first of these,absorbed at the time by the siege of Rochelle, embarrassed in a war withEngland, thwarted by the party of the queen mother, Mary de' Medici,who, for particular reasons, was hostile to the house of Nevers, couldonly hold out hopes and promises. The Venetians would not stir in thecontest, until a French army arrived in Italy; and while secretly aidingthe duke, they confined themselves, in their negotiations with the courtof Madrid, and the government of Milan, to protests, offers, or eventhreats, according to circumstances. Urban VIII. recommended the Dukeof Nevers to his friends, interceded for him with his adversaries, andmade propositions of peace; but he never afforded him any military aid.

The two powers, allied for offensive operations, could then securelybegin their enterprise; Carlos Emanuel entered Montferrat, and DonGonzalo gladly undertook the siege of Casale; but he did not meet with

the success he had anticipated. The court did not afford him all thesupplies he demanded; his ally, on the contrary, was too liberal in hisaid to the cause; for, after having taken his own portion, he also tookthat which had been assigned to the King of Spain. Don Gonzalo,inexpressibly enraged, but fearing, if he made the least complaint, thatCarlos, as active in intrigue, and as brave in arms, as he was fickle indisposition, and false to his promises, would throw himself on the sideof France; was constrained to shut his eyes, to champ the bit, and tomaintain a satisfied appearance. Whether from the firm resistance of thebesieged, or from the small number of troops employed against them, or,according to some statements, from the numerous mistakes of Don Gonzalo,the siege, although protracted, was finally unsuccessful. It was at thisvery period that the sedition of Milan obliged Don Gonzalo to go thitherin person.

In the relation that was there made to him, the flight of Renzo wasmentioned, and the facts, real or supposed, which had caused his arrest;he was also informed that this man had taken refuge in the territory ofBergamo. This latter circumstance attracted the attention of DonGonzalo; he knew that the Venetians had taken an interest in theinsurrection of Milan, and that, in the beginning of it, they hadimagined that, on that account alone, he would be obliged to raise thesiege of Casale, and thus incur a heavy disappointment to his hopes. Inaddition to this, immediately after this event, the news was received,so much desired by the senate, and so much dreaded by Gonzalo, of thesurrender of Rochelle. Stung to the quick, as a man and a politician,and vexed at his loss of reputation, he sought out every occasion toconvince the Venetians, that he had lost none of his former boldnessand determination; he therefore ventured to make loud complaints of theconduct of the senate. The resident of Venice, having come to pay hisrespects to him, and endeavouring to read in his features and deportmentwhat was passing in his mind, Don Gonzalo spoke lightly of the tumult,as a thing already quieted, making use, however, of the reception ofRenzo, in the Bergamascan territory, as a pretext for complaint againstthe Venetians. The result is known to our readers. When he had answeredhis own purposes, with the affair, it was entirely forgotten by him.

But Renzo, who was far from suspecting the little importance that was inreality attached to him, had, for a long time, no other thought but tokeep himself concealed. It may well be supposed that he desired ardentlyto send intelligence to Lucy and her mother, and to hear from them inreturn. But to this, there were two very great obstacles. It wasnecessary to confide in an amanuensis, as he himself was unable towrite,--an accomplishment in those days not very usual in his class; andhow could he venture to do this where all were strangers to him? Theother difficulty was to find a trusty messenger, to take charge of theletter. He finally succeeded in overcoming these difficulties, and foundone of his companions who could write for him. But not knowing whetherLucy and Agnes were still at Monza, he thought it best to enclose theletter under cover to Father Christopher, with a few lines in additionto him. The writer engaged to send it, and gave it to a man who was topass near Pescarenico, and who left it in an inn on the route, in aneighbouring place to the convent, and with many injunctions for itssafe delivery. As the cover was directed to a capuchin, it was carriedto Pescarenico, but it was never known what farther became of it. Renzo,not receiving an answer, caused another letter to be written, andenclosed it to one of his relations at Lecco. This time the letter

reached its destination. Agnes requested her cousin Alessio to read itfor her; and to write an answer, which was sent to Antonio Rivolta, atthe place of his abode; all this, however, was not done so quickly aswe tell it. Renzo received the answer, and wrote a reply; in short,there was a correspondence, however irregular, established between them.But the manner of carrying on such a correspondence, which is the same,perhaps, at this day, we will explain. The absent party who can't write,selects one who possesses the art, from amongst his own class, in whichhe can more securely trust. To him he explains with more or lessclearness his subject and his thoughts. The man of letters comprehendspart, guesses the rest, gives an opinion, proposes an alteration, andfinishes with "leave it to me." Then begins the translation of thespoken into the written thoughts.--The writer corrects, improves,overcharges, diminishes, or even omits, according to his opinion of thegraces of style. The finished letter is, accordingly, often wide of themark aimed at. But when, at length, it reaches the hands of acorrespondent, equally deficient in the art of reading running hand, heis under the like necessity of finding a learned clerk of the samecalibre to interpret the hieroglyphics. Hereupon arise questions uponthe various meanings. Towards their elucidation, the one suppliesphilological notices upon the text; the other, commentaries upon thehidden matter; so that, after mature discussion, they may come to thesame understanding between themselves, however remote that may be fromthe intention of the originator of the perplexity.

This was precisely the condition of our two correspondents.

The first letter from Renzo contained many details; he informed Agnes ofthe circumstance of his flight, his subsequent adventures, and hisactual situation. These events, however, were rather hinted at, thanclearly explained, so that Agnes and her interpreter were far fromdrawing any definite conclusions from the relation of them. He spoke ofsecret information, of a change of name; that he was in safety, but thathe was obliged to keep himself concealed; further, the letter containedpressing and passionate enquiries with regard to Lucy, with some obscurereferences to the reports which had reached him, mingled with vagueexpressions of hope, and plans for the future, and affectionateexhortations to constancy and patience.

Some time after the receipt of this letter, Agnes sent Renzo an answer,with the fifty crowns that had been assigned him by Lucy. At the sightof so much gold, he did not know what to think; and, with his mindagitated by reflections by no means agreeable, he went in search of hisamanuensis, requesting him to interpret the letter, and afford him aclue to the developement of the mystery.

The amanuensis of Agnes, after some complaints on the want of clearnessin Renzo's epistle, described the wonderful history of _this person_ (sohe called the Unknown), and thus accounted for the fifty crowns; then hementioned the vow, but only periphrastically; adding more explicitly theadvice, to set his heart at rest, and not to think of Lucy any more.

Renzo was very near quarrelling with his interpreter; he trembled; hewas enraged with what he had understood, and with what he had notunderstood. He made him read three or four times this melancholyepistle, sometimes understanding it better, sometimes finding obscureand inexplicable that which at first had appeared clear. In the delirium

of his passion, he desired his amanuensis to write an answerimmediately. After the strongest expressions of pity and horror at themisfortunes of Lucy; "Write," pursued he, "that I do not wish to set myheart at rest, and that I never will; that this is not advice to giveme; and that, moreover, I will never touch the money, but will keep itin trust, as the dowry of the young girl; that Lucy belongs to me, andthat I will not abide by her vow; that I have always heard that theVirgin interests herself in our affairs, for the purpose of aiding theafflicted, and obtaining favour for them; but that I have never heardthat she will protect those who do evil, and fail to perform theirpromises; say that, as such cannot be the case, her vow is good fornothing; that with this money we can establish ourselves here, and that,if our affairs are now a little perplexed, it is a storm which will soonpass away."

Agnes received this letter, sent an answer, and the correspondencecontinued for some time, as we have related. When her mother informedLucy that Renzo was well and in safety, she derived great relief fromthe intelligence, desiring but one thing more, which was, that he shouldforget, or rather, that he should endeavour to forget her. On her partshe made a similar resolution, with respect to him, a hundred times aday; and employing every means of which she was mistress to accomplishso desirable an end, she applied herself incessantly to labour,endeavouring to give to it all the powers of her soul. When the image ofRenzo occurred to her mind, she tried to banish it by prayer; but, whilethinking of her mother, (and how could she avoid thinking of hermother?) the image of Renzo intruded himself as a third into the placeso often occupied by the real Renzo. However, if she did not succeed inforgetting, she contrived at least to think less frequently of him; andin this she would have been more successful, had she been left toprosecute the work alone; but, alas! Donna Prassede, who, on her part,was determined to drive the poor youth from her mind, thought there wasno better expedient for the purpose than to talk of him incessantly;"Well," said she, "do you still think of him?"

"I think of no one," said Lucy.

Donna Prassede, who was not a woman to be satisfied with such an answer,replied, "that she wanted actions, not words." Discussing at length, thetendencies of young girls, she said, "When they have once given theirheart to a libertine, it is impossible to withdraw their affections. Iftheir love for an honest man is, by whatever means, unfortunate, theyare soon comforted, but love for a libertine is an incurable wound." Andthen beginning the panegyric of poor Renzo, of this rascal, who wishedto deluge Milan in blood, and reduce it to ashes, she concluded, byinsisting that Lucy should confess the crimes of which he had beenguilty in his own country.

Lucy, with a voice trembling from shame, grief, and from as muchindignation as her gentle disposition and humble station permitted her,declared and protested, that in her village this poor youth had alwaysacted peaceably and honourably, and had obtained a good reputation."She wished," she said, "that one of his countrymen were present to beartestimony to the truth." Even respecting the events at Milan, of which,'twas true, she knew not the details, she defended him, and solely onaccount of the acquaintance she had had with his habits from infancy.She defended him (or rather, she _meant_ to defend him) from the pure

duty of charity, from love of truth, and as being her neighbour. ButDonna Prassede deduced, from this defence, new arguments to convinceLucy, that this man still held a place in her heart, of which he was notworthy. At the degrading portrait which the old lady drew of him, thehabitual feelings of her heart, with regard to him, and her knowledgeand estimate of his character, revived with double force anddistinctness. Her recollections, which she had had so much difficulty insubduing, returned vividly to her imagination; in proportion to theaversion and contempt manifested by Donna Prassede towards theunfortunate youth, just in such proportion did she recall her formermotives for esteem and sympathy; this blind and violent hatred excitedin her heart stronger pity and tenderness. Such conversations could notbe much prolonged without resolving Lucy's words into tears.

If Donna Prassede had been led to this course of conduct by hatredtowards Lucy, the tears of the latter, which flowed freely during theseexaminations, might have subdued her to silence, but as she was moved tospeak by the desire of doing good, she never suffered herself to besoftened by them; for groans and supplications may arrest the arm of anenemy, but not the friendly lance of the surgeon. After havingreproached her for her wickedness, she passed to exhortations andadvice, mingling also a few praises, to temper the bitter with thesweet, and obtain more certainly the effect she desired. These disputes,which had nearly the same beginning, middle, and end, did not, however,leave any trace of resentment against her severe lecturer in the gentlebosom of Lucy; she was, in other respects, treated with much kindness bythe lady, and she believed her, even in this matter, to be guided bygood, though mistaken intentions. There did follow them, however, suchagitation, such uneasy awakening of slumbering thoughts, that much timeand effort were requisite to restore her to any degree of tranquillity.

It was a happiness for Lucy that Donna Prassede's sphere of usefulnesswas somewhat extensive; consequently these tiresome conversations couldnot be so frequently repeated. Besides her immediate household,composed, according to her opinion, of persons that had more or lessneed of correction and regulation; and besides all the other occasionswhich presented themselves for her rendering the same office from purebenevolence to persons who required not the duty at her hands; she hadfive daughters, neither of whom lived at home, but they gave her themore trouble from that very cause. Three were nuns; and two weremarried. Donna Prassede consequently had three monasteries and twofamilies to govern; a vast and complicated machinery, and the moretroublesome, as two husbands, supported by a numerous kindred, threeabbesses, defended by other dignitaries, and a great number of nuns,would not accept her superintendence. There was a continual warfare,polite indeed, but active and vigilant; a perpetual attention to avoidher solicitude, to close up the avenues to her advice, to elude herenquiries, and to keep her in as much ignorance as possible of theiraffairs. In her own family, however, her zeal could display itselffreely; all were governed by her authority, and submissive to her, inevery respect, with the exception of Don Ferrante; with him things wereconducted in a peculiar manner.

A man of study, he neither loved to obey nor command; he was perfectlywilling that his wife should be mistress in all things pertaining tohousehold affairs, but not that he should be her slave; and if, at herrequest, he lent upon occasion the services of his pen, it was because

he had a particular taste for such employments. And, moreover, he couldrefuse to do it, when not convinced of the propriety of her demand."Well," he would say, "do it yourself, since the matter appears so plainto you." Donna Prassede, after vainly trying to induce him tosubmission, took refuge in grumbling against him as an original, a manwho would have his own way, a mere scholar; which latter title,however, she never gave him without a degree of complacency, minglingitself with her displeasure.

Don Ferrante passed much time in his study, where he had a considerablecollection of choice books; he had selected the most famous works onmany different subjects, in each of which he was more or less versed. Inastrology he was justly considered more than an amateur, because he notonly possessed the general notions, and the common vocabulary ofinfluences, aspects, and conjunctions, but he could speak to the point,and, like a professor, of the twelve houses of heaven, of the great andlesser circles, of degrees, lucid and obscure, of exaltations, passages,and revolutions; in short, of the principles the most certain and mostrecondite of the science. For more than twenty years, in long andfrequent disputes, he had sustained the pre-eminence of _Cardan_ againstanother learned man attached to the system of _Alcabizio_, "from pureobstinacy," said Don Ferrante, who, in acknowledging voluntarily thesuperiority of the ancients, could not, however, endure the prejudicewhich would never accord to the moderns, even that which they evidentlydeserved. He had also a more than ordinary acquaintance with the historyof the science; he could cite the most celebrated predictions which hadbeen verified, and reason very skilfully and learnedly on othercelebrated predictions which had _not_ been verified, demonstrating thatthe failure was not owing to any deficiency in the science, but to theignorance which could not apply its principles.

He had acquired as much ancient philosophy as would have contented a manof ordinary ambition, but he was continually adding to his stock fromthe study of Diogenes Laertius; however, as we cannot adhere to everysystem, and as, from among them all, a choice is necessary to him whodesires the reputation of a philosopher, Don Ferrante made choice ofAristotle, who, as he was accustomed to say, was neither ancient normodern. He possessed many works of the wisest and most subtle disciplesof the school of Aristotle among the moderns; as to those of hisopponents, he would not read them, "because it would be a waste oftime," he said, "nor buy them, because it would be a waste of money."In the judgment of the learned, therefore, Don Ferrante passed for anaccomplished peripatetic, although this was not the judgment he passedon himself, for, more than once, he was heard to declare, with singularmodesty, that the essence, the universals, the soul of the world, andthe nature of things, were not matters so clear as people thought.

As to natural philosophy, he had made it more a pastime than a study: hehad rather read than digested the works of Aristotle himself on thesubject. Nevertheless, with a slight acquaintance with that author, andthe knowledge he had incidentally gathered from other treatises ofgeneral philosophy, he could, when necessary, entertain an assembly oflearned persons in reasoning most acutely on the wonderful virtues andsingular characteristics of many plants. He could describe exactly theforms and habits of the syrens, and the phoenix, the only one of itskind; he could explain how it was that the salamander lived in fire, howdrops of dew became pearls in the shell, how the chameleon lived on air,

and a thousand other secrets of the same nature.

He was, however, much more addicted to the study of magic and sorcery,as this was a science more in vogue, and withal more serviceable, andthe facts of which were of pre-eminent importance. It is not necessaryto add that, in devotion to such a science, he had no other purpose thanto obtain an accurate knowledge of the worst artifices of the sorcerers,in order to guard himself against them. Guided by the great _MartinoDelrio_, he was able to discourse, _ex professo_, on the enchantment oflove, the enchantment of sleep, the enchantment of hatred, and on theinnumerable species of these three chief enchantments, which, alas! arewitnessed every day in their destructive and baneful effects.

His knowledge of history, especially universal history, was not lessvast and solid. "But," said he often, "what is history without politics?a guide who conducts without teaching any one the way; as politicswithout history, is a man without a guide to conduct him." Here was thena small place on his shelf assigned to statistics; there, among othersof the second rank, were seen Bodin, Cavalcanti, Sansovino, Paruta, andBoccalini. There were, however, two books that Don Ferrante preferred toall others on the subject; two, which he called, for a long time, thefirst of the kind, without deciding to which of the two this rankexclusively belonged. One was _Il Principe_ and the _Discorsi_ of thecelebrated secretary of Florence. "A rascal, 'tis true," said he, "butprofound;" the other, _La Ragion di Stato_, of the not less celebratedGiovanni Botero. "An honest man, 'tis true," said he, "but cunning."But, a short time before the period to which our history belongs, a workappeared which had terminated the question of pre-eminence; a work inwhich was comprised and condensed a relation of every vice, in order toenable men to avoid it, and every virtue, in order to enable men topractise it,--a book of few leaves, indeed, but all of gold; in a word,the _Statista Regnante_ of _Don Valeriano Castiglione_; of thecelebrated man upon whom the most learned men emulated each other inbestowing praises, and for whose notice the greatest personagescontended; whom Pope Urban VIII. honoured with a magnificent eulogium;whom Cardinal Borghese and the Viceroy of Naples, Don Pietro de Toledo,solicited to write, the first, the life of Pope Paul V., the second, thewars of the Catholic king in Italy, and both in vain; whom Louis XIII.,King of France, with the advice of Cardinal Richelieu, named hishistoriographer; upon whom the Duke Carlos Emanuel, of Savoy, conferredthe same office; and in praise of whom the Duchess Christina, daughterto his most Christian majesty, Henry IV., added in a diploma, after manyother titles, "the renown he had obtained in Italy as the first writerof the age."

But if Don Ferrante might be said to be well versed in all the abovesciences, there was one in which he deserved, and really obtained, thetitle of professor, the science of chivalry. He not only spoke of it asa master, but was often requested to interfere in nice points of honour,and give his decision. He had in his library, and, we may add, in hishead also, the works of the most esteemed writers on this subject,particularly Torquato Tasso, whom he had always ready; and he could, ifrequired, cite from memory all the passages of the Jerusalem Delivered,which might be brought forward as authority in these matters. We mightspeak more at large of this learned man, but we feel it to be time toresume the thread of our history.

Nothing of importance occurred to any of the personages of our storybefore the following autumn, when Agnes and Lucy expected to meet again;but a great public event disappointed this hope. Other events followed,which produced no material change in their destiny. Then occurred newmisfortunes, powerful and overwhelming, coming upon them like ahurricane, which impetuously tears up and scatters every object in itsway, sweeping the land, and bearing off, with its irresistible andmighty power, every vestige of peace and prosperity. That the particularfacts which remain to be related may not appear obscure, we must recurfor awhile to the farther recital of general facts.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

After the famous sedition on St. Martin's day, it may be said thatabundance flowed into Milan, as if by enchantment. The shops were wellstored with bread, the price of which was no higher than in the mostfruitful years; those who, on that terrible day, had howled through thestreets, and committed every excess in their power, had now reason tocongratulate themselves. But, with the cessation of their alarm, theyhad not resumed their accustomed quiet; on the squares, and in the inns,there were congratulations and boastings (although in an under tone) athaving hit on a mode of reducing the price of bread. However, in themidst of these popular rejoicings, there reigned a vague apprehensionand presentiment that this happiness would be of short duration. Theybesieged the bakers and vendors of flour with the same pertinacity asduring the period of the former factitious and transient abundance,produced by the first tariff of Antony Ferrer. He who had some pence byhim converted them immediately into bread and flour, which was piled inchests, in small casks, and even in vessels of earthen ware. In thusattempting to extend the advantages of the moment, their long durationwas rendered, I do not say impossible, for it was so already; but eventheir momentary continuance thus became still more difficult.

On the fifteenth of November, Antony Ferrer, "_by the order of hisexcellency_," published a decree in which it was forbidden to any one,having any quantity of grain or flour in his house, to purchase more;and to the rest of the people to buy bread beyond that which wasnecessary for two days, "_under pecuniary and corporal penalties at thediscretion of his excellency_." The decree ordered the _anziani_(officers of justice), and invited every body, as a duty, to denouncethe offenders; it commanded the judges to cause search to be made inevery house which might be mentioned to them, issuing at the same time anew command to the bakers to keep their shops well furnished with bread,"_under penalty of five years in the galleys, and still greaterpunishment at the discretion of his excellency_." A great effort ofimagination would be required to believe that such orders were easy ofexecution.

In commanding the bakers to make such a quantity of bread, means oughtto have been afforded for the supply of the material of which it was tobe made. In seasons of scarcity, there is always an endeavour to makeinto bread various kinds of aliment, which, under ordinarycircumstances, are consumed under other forms. In this way rice was

introduced into the composition of a bread which was called mistura.[33]On the 23d of November, there was a decree issued, which placed at theorder of the vicar and twelve members of provision the half of the ricethat each possessed; under penalty for selling it without the permissionof those lords of the loss of the entire commodity, and a fine of threecrowns the bushel.

[33] Mixture.

But this rice had to be paid for at a price very disproportioned to thatof bread. The burden of supplying this enormous difference was imposedon the city: but the council of ten resolved to send a remonstrance tothe governor, on the impossibility of sustaining such a tax; and thegovernor fixed, by a decree of the 13th of December, the price of riceat twelve livres the bushel. It is also probable, though nowhereexpressly stated, that the maximum price for other sorts of grain wasfixed by other proclamations. Whilst, by these various measures, breadand flour were kept at a low price in Milan, it consequently happenedthat crowds of people rushed into the city to supply their wants. DonGonzalo, to remedy this inconvenience, forbade, by another decree of the15th of December, the carrying out of the city bread to the value ofmore than twenty pence; the penalty was a fine of "_twenty-five crowns,and in case of inability, a public flogging, and greater punishmentsstill, at the discretion of his excellency_."

The populace wished to procure abundance by pillage and conflagration,the legal power wished to maintain it by the galleys and the rope. Everymethod was resorted to to accomplish their purpose, but the reader willsoon learn the total failure of them all. It is, besides, easy to see,and not useless to observe, that these strange means had an intimate andnecessary connection with each other; each was the inevitableconsequence of the preceding, and all, in fact, flowed from the firsterror, that of fixing upon bread a price so disproportioned to thatwhich ought to have resulted from the real state of things. Such anexpedient, however, has always appeared to the populace not onlyconformable to equity, but very simple and easy of execution; it is thenvery natural that in the agonies and misery which are the necessaryeffects of scarcity, they should, if it be in their power, adopt it. Butas the consequences begin to be felt, the government is obliged torepair the evil by new laws, forbidding men to do that which previouslaws had recently prescribed to them.

The principal fruits of the insurrection were these; the destruction orloss of much provision in the insurrection itself, and the rapidconsumption of the small quantity of grain then on hand, which shouldotherwise have lasted until the next harvest. To these general effectsmay be added, the punishment of four of the populace, who were hung asleaders of the sedition, two before the baker's shop of the crutches,and two at the corner of the street in which was situated the house ofthe superintendent of provision.

The historical relations of this epoch are handed down to us with solittle clearness, that it is difficult to ascertain when this arbitrarytariff ceased. But we have numerous accounts of the situation of thecountry, and especially the city, in the winter of that year and thefollowing spring. In every quarter shops were closed; and themanufactories were, for the most part, deserted; the streets afforded a

terrible spectacle of sorrow and desolation; mendicants by profession,now the smallest number, were confounded with the new multitude,disputing for alms with those from whom they had formerly beenaccustomed to receive them; clerks and servants, dismissed by themerchants and shopkeepers, hardly existing upon some scanty savings;merchants and shopkeepers themselves failing and ruined by the stoppageof trade; artificers wandering from door to door, lying along thepavement, by the houses and churches, soliciting charity, and hesitatingbetween want and shame, emaciated and feeble, reduced by long fasting,and the rigours of the cold which penetrated their tattered clothing;servants, dismissed by their masters, who were incapable of maintainingtheir accustomed numerous and sumptuous establishments; and the numerousdependents upon the labour of these various classes, old men, women, andchildren, grouped around their former supporters, or wandered in searchof support elsewhere.

Among the wretched crowds also might be distinguished, by their _longlock_, by the remnants of their magnificent apparel, by their carriageand gestures, and by the traces which habit impresses on thecountenance, many _bravoes_, who, having lost in the common misery theircriminal means of support, were reduced to an equality of suffering, andwith difficulty dragged themselves along the city that they had so oftentraversed with a proud and ferocious bearing, magnificently armed andattired; they now extended with humility the hand which they had sofrequently raised to menace with insolence, or to strike with treachery.

But the most dense, livid, and hideous swarm was that of the villagers.These were seen in entire families; husbands with their wives, draggingalong their little ones, and supporting in their arms their wretchedbabies, whilst their own aged and helpless parents followed behind,--allflocked into the city in hopes of obtaining bread. Some, whose houseshad been invaded and despoiled by the soldiery, had fled in despair;some, to excite compassion, and render their misery more striking,showed the wounds and bruises they had received in defending theirhomes; and others, whom this scourge had not reached, had been driven,by the two scourges from which no corner of the country was exempt,sterility and the consequent increase on the price of provisions, to thecity, as to the abode of abundance and pious munificence. The new comersmight be recognised by their air of angry astonishment anddisappointment at finding such an excess of misery where they had hopedto be themselves the peculiar objects of compassion and benevolence.Here, too, might be recognised, in all their varieties of raggedhabiliments, in the midst of the general wretchedness, the pale dwellerof the marsh, the bronzed countenance of the plain or hill countryman,and the sanguine complexion of the mountaineer, all, however, alike inthe hollow eye, ferocious or insane countenance, knotted hair, long andmatted beard, attenuated body, shrivelled skin and bony breast,--allalike reduced to the lowest condition of languor, of infantine debility.

Heaps of straw and stubble were seen along the walls, and by thegutters, which appeared to be a particular provision of charity forthese unfortunate creatures; there their limbs reposed during the night;and in the day they were occupied by those who, exhausted by fatigue andsuffering, could no longer bear the weight of their emaciated bodies;sometimes, upon the damp straw a dead body lay extended; sometimes, themiserable spark of life was rekindled in its feeble tenement by timelysuccour from a hand rich in the means and in the disposition to do

good, the hand of the pious Frederick.

He had made choice of six priests of ardent charity and robustconstitution; and, dividing them into three companies, assigned to eachthe third of the city as their charge; they were accompanied by porters,laden with food, cordials, and clothing. Each morning these worthymessengers of benevolence passed through the streets, approached thosewhom they beheld stretched on the pavement, and gave to each theirkindly assistance. Those who were too ill to be benefited by temporalsuccour received from them the last offices of religion.

Their assistance was not limited to present relief: the good bishoprequested them, wherever it was possible, to furnish more efficaciousand permanent comfort, by giving to those who should be in some measurerestored to strength money for their future necessities, lest returningwant should again plunge them into wretchedness and misery; and toobtain shelter for others who lay exposed in the street in theneighbouring houses, by requesting their inhabitants to receive the poorafflicted ones as boarders, whose expenses would be paid by the cardinalhimself.

Frederick had not waited for the evil to attain its height, in order toexercise his benevolence, and to devote all the powers of his mindtowards its amelioration. By uniting all his means, by practising stricteconomy, by drawing upon the sums destined to other liberalities, andwhich had now become of secondary importance, he endeavoured to amassmoney, in order to employ it entirely for those who were suffering fromhunger and its consequences. He bought a quantity of grain, and sent itto the most destitute parts of his diocese; but as the succour was farfrom adequate to the necessity, he sent with it a great quantity ofsalt, "with which," says Ripamonti[34], relating the fact, "the herbs ofthe field and the leaves of trees were made food for men." Hedistributed grain and money to the curates of the city; and he himselftravelled over it, administering alms, and secretly aiding many indigentfamilies. In the episcopal palace, rice was boiled every day, and dealtout to the necessities of the people, to the extent of 2000 measures.Besides these splendid efforts of a single individual, many otherexcellent persons, though with less powerful means, strove to mitigatethe horrible sufferings of the people: of these sufferers, thousandsstruggled to grasp the broth or other food provided at differentquarters, and thus prolong for a day, at least, their miserable lives;but thousands were still left behind in the struggle, and thesegenerally the weakest,--the aged women and children; and these might beseen, dead and dying from inanition, in every part. But in the midst ofthese calamities not the least disposition to insurrection appeared.

[34] Historia Patriæ, decad. v. lib. vi. p. 386.

The void that mortality created each day in the miserable multitude waseach day more than replenished; there was a perpetual concourse, atfirst from the neighbouring villages, then from the more distantterritories, and, finally, from the Milanese cities.

The ordinary spectacle of ordinary times, the contrast of magnificentapparel with rags, and of luxury with poverty, had entirely disappeared.The nobility even wore coarse clothing; some, because the general miseryhad affected their fortune; others, because they would not insult the

wretchedness of the people, or because they feared to provoke thegeneral despair by the display of luxury at such a time.

Thus passed the winter and the spring; already had the Tribunal ofHealth remonstrated with the Tribunal of Provision on the danger towhich such mass of misery exposed the city. To prevent contagiousdiseases, a proposal was made to confine the vagabond beggars in thevarious hospitals. Whilst this project was under discussion, someapproving and others condemning, dead bodies incumbered the streets. TheTribunal of Provision, however, proposed another expedient as more easyand expeditious, which was, to shut up all the mendicants, healthy ordiseased, in the lazaretto, and to maintain them there at the expense ofthe city. This measure was resolved upon, notwithstanding theremonstrances of the Tribunal of Health, who objected that, in sonumerous an assemblage, the evil to which they wished to apply a remedywould be greatly augmented.

The little order that reigned in the lazaretto, the bad quality of thefood, and the standing water which was drank plentifully, soon creatednumerous maladies. To these causes of mortality, so much the more activefrom operating on bodies already exhausted or enfeebled, was added theunfavourableness of the season; obstinate rains, followed by moreobstinate drought, and violent heat. To these physical evils were addedothers of a moral nature, despair and wearisomeness in captivity, desirefor accustomed habits, regret for cherished beings of whom theseunfortunate beings had been deprived; painful apprehension for those whowere living, and the continual dread of death, which had itself become anew and powerful cause of the extension of disease. It is not to bewondered at that mortality increased in this species of prison to such adegree as to assume the appearance and deserve the name of _pestilence_.The number of deaths in the lazaretto soon amounted to a hundred daily.

Whilst within these wretched walls, grief, fear, anguish, and rageprevailed, in the Tribunal of Provision, shame, astonishment, andirresolution were equally apparent. They consulted, and now listened tothe advice of the Tribunal of Health: finding they could do no betterthan to undo what they had done, at so much expense and trouble, theyopened the doors of the lazaretto, and released all who were well enoughto leave it. The city was thus again filled with its former cries, butfeebler, and more interrupted; the sick were transported to Santa Mariadella Stella, which was then the hospital for the poor, and the greaterpart perished there.

However, the fields began to yield the harvest so long desired, and thetroops of peasants left the city for their long prayed for andaccustomed labours. The ingenious and inexhaustible charity of the goodFrederick still exerted itself; he made a present of a giulio[35] and asickle to each peasant, who solicited it at the palace.

[35] A coin worth about 6_d._

With a plentiful harvest, scarcity ceased to be felt; the mortality,however, continued, in a greater or less degree, until the middle ofautumn. It was on the point of ceasing, when a new scourge overwhelmedthe city and country.

Many events of high historical importance had occurred in this interval

of time. The Cardinal Richelieu, after having taken Rochelle, and made atreaty of peace with England, had proposed, effected by his powerfulinfluence in the councils of the French king, that efficacious aidshould be sent to the Duke of Nevers; he had also persuaded the king tolead the expedition in person. Whilst the preparations were in progress,the Count of Nassau, imperial commissary, suggested to the new duke inMantua the expediency of replacing his states in the hands of Ferdinand;intimating that, in case of refusal, an army would be immediately sentby the emperor to occupy them. The duke, who in the most desperatecircumstances had rejected so hard a condition, encouraged now by thepromised succours from France, was determined still longer to defendhimself. The commissary departed, declaring that force would soon decidethe matter.

In the month of March, the Cardinal Richelieu with the king, at the headof an army, demanded a free passage from the Duke of Savoy; he enteredinto treaties for the purpose, but nothing was concluded. After arencounter, in which the French obtained the advantage, a new treaty wasentered into, in which the duke stipulated that Don Gonzalo de Cordovashould raise the siege of Casale, engaging, in case of his refusal, tounite with the French, and invade the duchy of Milan. Don Gonzalo raisedthe siege of Casale, and a body of French troops entered it, toreinforce the garrison. The Cardinal Richelieu decided to return toFrance, on business which he regarded as more urgent; but GirolamoSoranzo, envoy from Venice, offered the most powerful reasons to diverthim from this resolution. To these the king and the cardinal paid noattention; they returned with the greatest part of the army, leavingonly 6000 men at Suza to occupy the passes and maintain the treaty.

Whilst this army departed on one side, that of Ferdinand, commanded bythe Count of Collato, advanced on the other. It had invaded the countryof the Grisons, and the Valtelline, and was preparing to come down onthe Milanese. Besides the usual terrors which such an expectation wascalculated to excite, the report was spread, that the plague lurked inthe imperial army. Alessandro Tadino, one of the conservators of thepublic health, was charged by the tribunal to state to the governor thefrightful danger which threatened the country, if this army shouldobtain the pass which opened on Mantua. It appears from all the actionsof Gonzalo, that he was possessed by a desire to occupy a great place inhistory; but, as often happens, history has failed to register one ofhis most remarkable acts, the answer he returned to this Doctor Tadino;which was, "that he knew not what could be done; that reasons ofinterest and honour, which had induced the march of the army, were ofgreater weight than the danger represented; that he would, however,endeavour to act for the best, and that they must trust to Providence."

In order, then, to act for the best, their two physicians proposed tothe tribunal to forbid, under the most severe penalty, the purchase ofany articles of clothing from the soldiers who were about to pass. As toDon Gonzalo, his reply to Doctor Tadino was one of his last acts atMilan, as the ill success of the war, which had been instigated anddirected by him, caused him to be displaced in the course of the summer.He was succeeded by Marquis Ambrosio Spinola, who had already acquiredthe military celebrity in the wars of Flanders which still endures.

Meanwhile the German troops had received definite orders to march uponMantua, and in the month of September they entered the duchy of Milan.

At this epoch armies were composed, for the greater part, ofadventurers, enlisted by _condottieri_, who held their commission fromsome prince, and who sometimes pursued the occupation on their ownaccount, so as to be able to sell themselves and followers together. Menwere drawn to this vocation much less by the pay which was assigned tothem, than by the hope of pillage, and the charms of licence. There wasno fixed or general discipline; and as their pay was very uncertain, thespoils of the countries which they over-ran were tacitly accorded tothem by their commanders.

It was a saying of the celebrated Wallenstein's, that it was easier tomaintain an army of 100,000 men than one of 12,000. And this army ofwhich we are now speaking was part of that which in the thirty years'war had desolated all Germany; it was commanded by one of Wallenstein'slieutenants, and consisted of 28,000 infantry, and 7000 horse. Indescending from the Valtelline towards Milan, they had to coast alongthe Adda, to the place where it empties into the Po; eight days' marchin the duchy of Milan.

A great proportion of the inhabitants retired to the mountains, carryingwith them their most precious possessions; some remained to watch thesick, or to preserve their dwellings from the flames, or to watch thevaluable property which they had buried or concealed; and othersremained because they had nothing to lose. When the first detachmentarrived at the place where they were to halt, the soldiers scatteredthemselves through the country; and subjected it at once to pillage; allthat could be eaten or carried off disappeared; fields were destroyed,and cottages burnt to the ground; every hiding-place, every method towhich people had resorted, in their despair, for the defence of theirproperty, became useless, nay, often resulted in the peculiar injury ofthe proprietor. Strict search was made throughout every house by thesoldiers; they easily detected in the gardens the earth which had beennewly dug; they penetrated the caverns in search of the opulentinhabitants, who had taken refuge there, and dragging them to theirhouses, forced them to declare where they had concealed their treasures.

At last they departed; their drums and trumpets were heard receding inthe distance, and a temporary calm succeeded to these hours of tumultand affright; but, alas! the sound of drums was again heard, announcingthe arrival of another detachment, the soldiers of which, furious at notfinding booty, destroyed what the first work of desolation had spared;burned the furniture and the houses, and manifested the most cruel andsavage disposition towards the inhabitants. This continued for a periodof twenty days, the army containing that number of divisions.

Colico was the first territory of the duchy that these demons invaded;they then threw themselves on Bellano, from which they entered andspread themselves in the Valsassina, whence they marched into theterritory of Lecco.

CHAPTER XXIX.

Here, among those who were expecting the arrival of the army in alarmand consternation, we find persons of our acquaintance. He who did notbehold Don Abbondio on the day when the report was spread of the descentof the army, of its near approach, and its excesses, can have no idea ofthe power of fright upon a feeble mind. All sorts of reports wereafloat. They are coming--thirty, forty, fifty thousand men. They havesacked Cortenova; burnt Primaluna; plundered Introbbio, Pasturo, Barsio.They have been seen at Balobbio; to-morrow they will be here. Such werethe statements in circulation. The villagers assembled in tumultuouscrowds, hesitating whether to fly or remain, while the women lamentedaloud over their miserable fate.

Don Abbondio, to whom flight had immediately suggested itself, saw init, nevertheless, invincible obstacles, and frightful dangers. "Whatshall I do?" cried he; "where shall I go?" The mountains, withoutspeaking of the difficulty of ascending them, were not safe; the footsoldiers climbed them like cats, if they had the slightest indication orhope of booty; the waters of the lake were swollen; it was blowingviolently; in addition to which, the greater part of the watermen,fearing to be forced to pass soldiers or baggage, had taken refuge withtheir boats on the opposite shore; the few barks that remained werealready filled with people, and endangered by the weather. It wasimpossible to find a carriage or horse, or any mode of conveyance. DonAbbondio did not dare venture on foot, incurring, as he would, theprobability of being stopped on the road. The confines of theBergamascan territory were not so distant, but that he could have walkedthere in a little while; but a report had reached the village, that asquadron of _cappelletri_ had been sent in haste from Bergamo, to guardthe frontiers against the German foot-soldiers. These were not lessdevils incarnate than those they were commissioned to oppose. The poorman was beside himself with terror; he endeavoured to concert withPerpetua some plan of escape, but Perpetua was quite occupied incollecting and concealing his valuables; with her hands full, shereplied, "Let me place this in safety; we will then do as other peopledo." Don Abbondio desired eagerly to discuss with her the best means tobe pursued, but Perpetua, between hurry and fright, was less tractablethan usual: "Others will do the best they can," said she, "and so willwe. Excuse me, but you only hinder one. Do you not think they have skinsto save as well as we?"

Relieving herself thus from his importunities, she went on with heroccupation; the poor man, as a last resource, went to a window, andcried, in a piteous tone, to the people who were passing, "Do your poorcurate the favour to bring him a horse or a mule; is it possible no onewill come to help me? Wait for me at least; wait till I can go with you;abandon me not. Would you leave me in the power of these dogs? Know younot that they are Lutherans, and that the murder of a priest will seemto them a meritorious deed? Would you leave me here to be martyred?"

But to whom did he address this appeal? to men who were themselvesincumbered with the weight of their humble movables, or, disturbed bythe thoughts of what they had been obliged to leave behind, exposed tothe ravages of the destroyer. One drove his cow before him; anotherconducted his children, who were also laden with burdens, his wifeperhaps with an infant in her arms. Some went on their way withoutreplying or looking at him; others merely said, "Eh, sir, do as you can;you are fortunate in having no family to think of; help yourself; do the

best you can."

"Oh, poor me!" cried Don Abbondio, "oh, what savages! they have nofeeling; they give not a thought to their poor curate!" And he wentagain in search of Perpetua.

"Oh, you are come just in time," said she, "where is your money?"

"What shall we do with it?"

"Give it to me; I will bury it in the garden with the plate."

"But----"

"But, but, give it to me; keep a few pence for necessity, and let memanage the rest."

Don Abbondio obeyed, and drawing his treasure from his strong box, gaveit to Perpetua. "I will bury it in the garden, at the foot of thefig-tree," said she, as she disappeared. She returned in a few moments,with a large basket, full of provisions, and a small one, which wasempty; into the latter she put a few articles of clothing for herselfand master.

"You must take your breviary with you," said she.

"But where are we going?"

"Where every one else goes. We will go into the street, and then weshall hear and see what we must do."

At this moment Agnes entered with a small basket in her hand, and withthe air of one about to make an important proposal.

She had decided not to wait the approach of the dangerous guests, aloneas she was, and with the gold of the Unknown in her possession; but hadremained some time in doubt where to seek an asylum. The residue of thecrowns, which in time of famine would have been so great a treasure, wasnow the principal cause of her anxiety and irresolution; as, under thepresent circumstances, those who had money were worse off than others;being exposed at the same time to the violence of strangers, and thetreachery of their companions. It is true, none knew of the wealth whichhad thus, as it were, fallen to her from heaven, except Don Abbondio, towhom she had often applied to change a crown, leaving him always somepart of it for those more unfortunate than herself. But hiddenproperty, above all, to those not accustomed to such a possession, keepsthe possessor in continual suspicion of others. Now, whilst shereflected on the peculiar dangers to which she was exposed, by the verygenerosity itself of the Unknown, the offer of unlimited service, whichhad accompanied the gift, suddenly occurred to her recollection. Sheremembered the descriptions she had heard of his castle, as situated ina high place, where, without the concurrence of the master, none daredventure but the birds of heaven. Resolving to go thither, and reflectingon the means of making herself known to this signor, her thoughtsrecurred to Don Abbondio, who, since the conversation with thearchbishop, had been very particular in his expression of good feelingtowards her, as he could at present be, without compromising himself,

there being but little probability, from the situation of affairs, thathis benevolence would be put to the test. She naturally supposed, thatin a time of such consternation, the poor man would be more alarmed thanherself, and might acquiesce in her plan; this was, therefore, thepurpose of her visit. Finding him alone with Perpetua, she made knownher intentions.

"What do you say to it, Perpetua?" asked Don Abbondio.

"I say that it is an inspiration from Heaven, and that we must lose notime, and set off immediately."

"But then----"

"But then, but then; when we have arrived safely there, we shall be veryglad, that's all. It is well known that this signor thinks of nothingnow but doing good to others, and he will afford us an asylum with thegreatest pleasure. There, on the frontiers, and almost in the sky, thesoldiers will not trouble us. But then--but then, we shall have enoughto eat, no doubt. On the top of the mountains, the provisions we havehere with us would not serve us long."

"Is it true that he is really converted?"

"Can you doubt it, after all you have seen?"

"And if, after all, we should be voluntarily placing ourselves inprison?"

"What prison? With this trifling, excuse me, we shall never come to anyconclusion. Worthy Agnes! your plan is an excellent one." So saying, sheplaced the basket on the table, and having passed her arms through thestraps, swung it over her shoulders.

"Could we not procure," said Don Abbondio, "some man to accompany us?Should we encounter some ruffian on the way, what assistance would yoube to me?"

"Not done yet! always losing time!" cried Perpetua. "Go then, and lookfor a man, and you will find every one engaged in his own business, Iwarrant you. Come, take your breviary, and your hat, and let us be off."

Don Abbondio was obliged to obey, and they departed. They passed througha small door into the churchyard. Perpetua closed it from custom; notfor the security it could now give. Don Abbondio cast a look towards thechurch,--"It is for the people to guard it," thought he; "it is theirchurch: let them see to it, if they have the heart." They took theby-paths through the fields, but were in continual apprehension ofencountering some one, who might arrest their progress. They met no one,however; all were employed, either in guarding their houses, or packingtheir furniture, or travelling, with their moveables, towards themountains.

Don Abbondio, after many sighs and interjections, began to grumblealoud: he complained of the Duke of Nevers, who could have remained toenjoy himself in France, had he not been determined to be Duke ofMantua, in despite of all the world; of the emperor, and above all, of

the governor, whose duty it was to keep this scourge from the country,and not invoke it by his taste for war.

"Let these people be, they cannot help us now," said Perpetua. "Theseare your usual chatterings, excuse me, which mean nothing. That whichgives me the most uneasiness----"

"What is it?"

Perpetua, who had been leisurely recalling to mind the things which shehad so hastily concealed, remembered that she had forgotten such anarticle, and had not safely deposited such another; that she had lefttraces which might impart information to the depredators.

"Well done!" cried Don Abbondio, in whom the security he was beginningto feel with regard to his life allowed his anxiety to appear for hisproperty; "well done! Is this what you have been doing? Where were yourbrains?"

"How!" replied Perpetua, stopping for a moment, and attempting, as faras her load would permit, to place her arms a-kimbo; "do you find fault,when it was yourself who teased me out of my wits, instead of helping meas you ought to have done? I have thought more of my master's goods thanmy own; and if there is any thing lost, I can't help it, I have donemore than my duty."

Agnes interrupted these disputes by introducing her own troubles: shewas obliged to relinquish the hope of seeing her dear Lucy, for sometime at least; for she could not expect that Donna Prassede would comeinto this vicinity under such circumstances. The sight of thewell-remembered places through which they were passing increased theanguish of her feelings. Leaving the fields, they had taken the highroad, the same which the poor woman had travelled, in re-conducting, forso short a time, her daughter to her home, after having been with her atthe tailor's. As they approached the village, "Let us go and visit theseworthy people," said Agnes.

"And rest a little, and eat a mouthful," said Perpetua, "for I begin tohave enough of this basket."

"On condition that we lose no time, for this is not by any means ajourney for amusement," said Don Abbondio.

They were received with open arms, and cordially welcomed; Agnes,embracing the good hostess, wept bitterly; replying with sobs to thequestions her husband and she asked concerning Lucy.

"She is better off than we are," said Don Abbondio; "she is at Milan,sheltered from danger, far from these horrible scenes."

"The signor curate and his companions are fugitives, are they not?" saidthe tailor.

"Yes," replied, at the same time, Perpetua and her master.

"I sympathise with your misfortunes."

"We are going to the castle of----"

"That is well thought of; you will be as safe as in Paradise."

"And are you not afraid here?"

"We are too much off the road. If they should turn out of their way, weshall be warned in time."

The three travellers decided to take a few hours' rest: as it was thehour of dinner, "Do me the honour," said the tailor, "to partake of myhumble fare."

Perpetua said she had provisions enough in her basket wherewith to breakher fast; after a little ceremony, however, on both sides, they agreedto seat themselves at the dinner table.

The children had joyfully surrounded their old friend Agnes; the tailorordered one of them to roast some early chestnuts; "and you," said he toanother, "go to the garden, and bring some peaches; all that are ripe.And you," to a third, "climb the fig-tree, and gather the best figs; itis a business to which you are well accustomed." As for himself, he leftthe room to tap a small cask of wine, while his wife went in search of atable-cloth. All being prepared, they seated themselves at the friendlyboard, if not with unmingled joy, at least with much more satisfactionthan they could have anticipated from the events of the morning.

"What does the signor curate say to the disasters of the times? I canfancy I'm reading the history of the Moors in France," said the tailor.

"What do I say? That even that misfortune might have befallen me,"replied Don Abbondio.

"You have chosen an excellent asylum, however; for none can ascend thoseheights without the consent of the master. You will find a numerouscompany there. Many people have already fled thither, and there arefresh arrivals every day."

"I dare to hope we shall be well received. I know this worthy signor:when I had the honour to be in his company he was all politeness."

"And," said Agnes, "he sent me word by his illustrious lordship, that ifever I should need assistance, I had only to apply to him."

"What a wonderful conversion!" resumed Don Abbondio. "And he perseveres?does he _not_ persevere?"

The tailor spoke at length of the holy life of the Unknown, and said,that after having been the scourge of the country, he had become itsbest example and benefactor.

"And the people of his household--that band?" asked Don Abbondio, whohad heard some contradictory stories concerning them, and did not feel,therefore, quite secure.

"The greater part have left him," replied the tailor, "and those whohave remained have changed their manner of life; in short, this castle

has become like the Thebaid. The signor curate understands me."

Then retracing with Agnes the visit of the cardinal, "What a great man!"said he, "a great man, indeed! what a pity he remained so short a timewith us! I wished to do him honour. Oh, if I had only been able toaddress him again, more at my leisure!"

When they rose from table, he showed them an engraving of the cardinal,which he had hung on the door, from veneration to his virtues, and alsoto enable him to assure every body that it was no likeness; he knew itwas not, as he had regarded him closely at his leisure in this veryroom.

"Did they mean that for him?" said Agnes. "The habit is the same,but----"

"It is no likeness, is it?" said the tailor; "that is what I always say,but other things being wanting, there is at least his name under it,which tells who it is."

Don Abbondio being impatient to be gone, the tailor went in search of avehicle to carry the little company to the foot of the ascent, andreturned in a few moments to inform them it was ready. "Signor curate,"said he, "if you wish a few books to carry with you, I can lend yousome; for I amuse myself sometimes with reading. They are not likeyours, to be sure, being in the vulgar tongue, but----"

"A thousand thanks, but under present circumstances I have scarcelybrains enough to read my breviary."

After an exchange of thanks, invitations, and promises, they badefarewell, and pursued, with a little more tranquillity of mind, theremainder of their journey.

The tailor had told Don Abbondio the truth, with regard to the new lifeof the Unknown. From the day that we took our leave of him, he hadcontinued to put in practice his good intentions, by repairing injuries,reconciling himself with his enemies, and succouring the distressed andunfortunate. The courage he had formerly evinced in attack and defencehe now employed in avoiding all occasion both for the one and the other.He went unarmed and alone; disposed to suffer the possible consequencesof the violences he had committed; persuaded that it would be adding tohis crimes to employ any methods of defence for himself, as he was adebtor to all the world; and persuaded also, that though the evil doneto him would be sin against God, it would be but a just retributionagainst himself; and that he had left himself no right to revenge aninjury, however unprovoked it might be at the time. But he was not lessinviolable than when he bore arms to insure his safety; the recollectionof his former ferocity, and the contrast of his present gentleness, theformer exciting a desire of revenge, and the latter rendering thisrevenge so easy, conspired to subdue hatred, and, in its place, tosubstitute an admiration which served him as a safeguard. The man whomno one could humble, but who had humbled himself, was regarded with thedeepest veneration. Those whom he had wronged had obtained, beyond theirhopes, and without incurring any danger, a satisfaction which they couldnever have promised themselves from the most complete revenge, thesatisfaction of seeing him repent of his wrongs, and participate, so to

speak, in their indignation. In his voluntary abasement, his countenanceand manner had acquired, without his own knowledge, something elevatedand noble; his outward demeanour was as dauntless as ever.

This change, also, in addition to other reasons, secured him from publicretribution at the instigation of those in authority. His rank andfamily, which had always been a species of defence to him, stillprevailed in his favour; and to his name, already famous, was joined thepersonal esteem which was now due to him. The magistrates and nobilityhad rejoiced at his conversion, as well as the people; as thisconversion produced compensations that they were neither accustomed toask nor obtain. Probably, also, the name of the Cardinal Frederick,whose interest in his conversion, and subsequent friendship for him,were well known, served him as an impenetrable shield.

Upon the arrival of the German troops, when fugitives from the invadedcountries fled to the castle, delighted that his walls, so long theobject of dread and execration to the feeble, should now be regarded asa place of security and protection, the Unknown received them ratherwith gratitude than politeness. He caused it to be made public, that hisdoors would be open to all, and employed himself immediately in placingnot only the castle but the valley beneath in a state of defence:assembling the servants who had remained with him, he addressed them onthe opportunity God had afforded them, as well as himself, to servethose whom they had so frequently oppressed and terrified. With his oldaccent of command, expressing the certainty of being obeyed, he gavethem general orders, as to their deportment, so that those who shouldtake refuge with him might behold in them only defenders and friends. Hegave their arms to them again, of which they had been deprived; as alsoto the peasants of the valley, who were willing to engage in itsdefence: he named officers, and appointed to them their duty and theirdifferent stations, as he had been accustomed to do in his formercriminal life. He himself, however, whether from principle, or that hehad made a vow to that effect, remained unarmed at the head of hisgarrison.

He also employed the females of the household in preparing beds, straw,mattresses, sacks, in various rooms intended as temporary dormitories.He ordered abundant provisions to be brought to the castle for the useof the guests God should send him; and in the mean while he was himselfnever idle, visiting every post, examining every defence, andmaintaining the most perfect order by his authority and his presence.

CHAPTER XXX.

As our fugitives approached the valley, they were joined by manycompanions in misfortune, who were on the same errand to the castle withthemselves: under similar circumstances of distress and anguish,intimacies are soon matured, and they listened to the relation of eachother's peril with mutual interest and sympathy; some had fled, like thecurate and our females, without waiting the arrival of the troops;others had actually seen them, and could describe, in lively colours,their savage and horrible appearance.

"We are fortunate, indeed," said Agnes; "let us thank Heaven. We maylose our property, but at least our lives are safe."

But Don Abbondio could not see so much reason for congratulation; thegreat concourse of people suggested new causes of alarm. "Oh," murmuredhe to the females when no one was near enough to hear him; "oh, do younot perceive that by assembling here in such crowds we shall attract thenotice of the soldiery? As every one flies and no one remains at home,they will believe that our treasures are up here, and this belief willlead them hither. Oh, poor me! why was I so thoughtless as to venturehere!"

"What should they come here for?" said Perpetua, "they are obliged topursue their route; and, at all events, where there is danger, it isbest to have plenty of company."

"Company, company, silly woman! don't you know that every lansquenetcould devour a hundred of them? and then, if any of them should commitsome foolish violence, it would be a fine thing to find ourselves in themidst of a battle! It would have been better to have gone to themountains. I don't see why they have all been seized with a mania to goto one place. Curse the people! all here; one after the other, like afrightened flock of sheep!"

"As to that," said Agnes, "they may say the same of us."

"Hush, hush! it is of no use to talk," said Don Abbondio; "that which isdone, _is_ done: we are here, and here we must remain. May Heavenprotect us!"

But his anxiety was much increased by the appearance of a number ofarmed men at the entrance of the valley. It is impossible to describehis vexation and alarm. "Oh, poor me!" thought he; "I might haveexpected this from a man of his character. What does he mean to do? Willhe declare war? Will he act the part of a sovereign? Oh, poor me! poorme! In this terrible conjuncture he ought to have concealed himself asmuch as possible; and, behold, he seeks every method to make himselfknown. It is easy to be seen he wants to provoke them."

"Do you not see, sir," said Perpetua, "that these are brave men who areable to defend us? Let the soldiers come; these men are not at all likeour poor devils of peasants, who are good for nothing but to use theirlegs."

"Be quiet," replied Don Abbondio, in a low but angry tone, "be quiet;you know not what you say. Pray Heaven that the army may be in haste toproceed on its march, so that they may not gain information of thisplace being disposed like a garrison. They would ask for nothing better;an assault is mere play to them, and putting every one to the sword likegoing to a wedding. Oh, poor me! perhaps I can secure a place of safetyon one of these precipices. I will never be taken in battle! I willnever be taken in battle! I never will!"

"If you are even afraid of being defended----" returned Perpetua; butDon Abbondio sharply interrupted her.

"Be quiet, and take care not to relate this conversation. Remember youmust always keep a pleasant countenance here, and appear to approve allthat you see."

At Malanotte they found another company of armed men. Don Abbondio tookoff his hat and bowed profoundly, saying to himself, "Alas, alas! I amreally in a camp." They here quitted the carriage to ascend the pass onfoot, the curate having in haste paid and dismissed the driver. Therecollection of his former terrors in this very place increased hispresent forebodings of evil, by mingling themselves with hisreflections, and enfeebling more and more his understanding. Agnes, whohad never before trod this path, but who had often pictured it to herimagination, was filled with different but keenly painful remembrances."Oh, signor curate," cried she, "when I think how my poor Lucy passedthis very road."

"Will you be quiet, foolish woman?" cried Don Abbondio in her ear. "Arethese things to speak of in this place? Are you ignorant that we are onhis lands? It is fortunate no one heard you. If you speak in thismanner----"

"Oh," said Agnes, "now that he is a saint----"

"Be quiet," repeated Don Abbondio: "think you we can tell the saints allthat passes through our brains? Think rather of thanking him for thekindness he has done you."

"Oh, as to that I have already thought of it; do you think I have nomanners, no politeness?"

"Politeness, my good woman, does not consist in telling people thingsthey don't like to hear. Have a little discretion, I pray you. Weighwell your words, speak but little, and that only when it isindispensable. There is no danger in silence."

"You do much worse with all your----" began Perpetua. But "Hush," saidDon Abbondio, and, taking off his hat, he bowed profoundly. The Unknownwas coming to meet them, having recognised the curate approaching. "Icould have wished," said he, "to offer you my house on a more agreeableoccasion; but, under any circumstances, I esteem myself happy in servingyou."

"Confiding in the great kindness of your illustrious lordship, I havetaken the liberty to trouble you at this unhappy time; and, as yourillustrious lordship sees, I have also taken the liberty to bringcompany with me. This is my housekeeper----"

"She is very welcome."

"And this is a female to whom your lordship has already rendered greatbenefits. The mother of--of----"

"Of Lucy," said Agnes.

"Of Lucy!" cried the Unknown, turning to Agnes; "rendered benefits! I!Just God! It is you who render benefits to me by coming hither; tome--to this dwelling. You are very welcome. You bring with you the

blessing of Heaven!"

"Oh, I come rather to give you trouble." Approaching him nearer, shesaid, in a low voice, "I have to thank you----"

The Unknown interrupted her, asking with much interest concerning Lucy.He then conducted his new guests to the castle. Agnes looked at thecurate, as if to say, "See if there is any need of your interferingbetween us with your advice."

"Has the army arrived in your parish?" said the Unknown to Don Abbondio.

"No, my lord, I would not wait for the demons. Heaven knows if I shouldhave escaped alive from their hands, and been able to trouble yourillustrious lordship!"

"You may be quite at ease; you are now in safety; they will not comehere. If the whim should seize them, we are ready to receive them."

"Let us hope they will not come," said Don Abbondio. "And on that side,"added he, pointing to the opposite mountains, "on that side, also,wanders another body of troops; but--but----"

"It is true. But, doubt not, we are ready for them also."

"Between two fires!" thought Don Abbondio, "precisely between two fires!Where have I suffered myself to be led? And by two women! And this lordappears to delight in such business! Oh, what people there are in theworld!"

When they entered the castle, the Unknown ordered Agnes and Perpetua tobe conducted to a room, in the quarter assigned to the women, which wasthree of the four wings of the second court, in the most retired part ofthe edifice. The men were accommodated in the wings of the other courtto the right and left; the body of the building was filled, partly withprovisions, and partly with the effects that the refugees brought withthem. In the quarter devoted to the men was a small apartment destinedto the ecclesiastics who might arrive. The Unknown accompanied DonAbbondio thither, who was the first to take possession of it.

Our fugitives remained three or four and twenty days in the castle, inthe midst of continual bustle and alarm. Not a day passed without somereports; at each account, the Unknown, unarmed as he was, led his bandbeyond the precincts of the valley to ascertain the extent of the peril;it was a singular thing, indeed, to behold him, without any personaldefence, conducting a body of armed men.

Not to encroach too far on the benevolence of the Unknown, Agnes andPerpetua employed themselves in performing services in the household.These occupations, with occasional conversations with the acquaintancesthey had formed at the castle, enabled them to pass away the time withless weariness. Poor Don Abbondio, who had nothing to do, wasnotwithstanding prevented from becoming listless and inactive by hisfears: as to the dread of an attack, it was in some measure dissipated,but still the idea of the surrounding country, occupied on every side bysoldiers, and of the numerous consequences which might at any momentresult from such a state, kept him in perpetual alarm.

All the time he remained in this asylum he never thought of going beyondthe defences; his only walk was on the esplanade; he surveyed everyside of the castle, observing attentively the hollows and precipices, toascertain if there were any practicable passage by which he might seekescape in case of imminent danger. Every day there were various reportsof the march of the soldiers; some newsmongers by profession gatheredgreedily all these reports, and spread them among their companions. Onsuch a day, such a regiment arrived in such a territory; the next daythey would ravage such another, where, in the mean time, anotherdetachment had been plundering before them. An account was kept of theregiments that passed the bridge of Lecco, as they were then consideredfairly out of the country. The cavalry of Wallenstein passed, then theinfantry of Marrados, then the cavalry of Anzalt, then the infantry ofBrandenburgh, and, finally, that of Galasso. The flying squadron ofVenetians also removed, and the country was again free from invaders.Already the inhabitants of the different villages had begun to quit thecastle; some departed every day, as after an autumn storm the birds ofheaven leave the leafy branches of a great tree, under whose shelterthey had sought and obtained protection. Our three friends were the lastto depart, as Don Abbondio feared, if he returned so soon to his house,to find there some loitering soldiers. Perpetua in vain repeated, thatthe longer they delayed, the greater opportunity they afforded to thethieves of the country to take possession of all that might have beenleft by the spoilers.

On the day fixed for their departure, the Unknown had a carriage readyat Malanotte, and, taking Agnes aside, he made her accept a bag ofcrowns, to repair the damage she would find at home; although sheprotested she was in no need of them, having still some of those he hadformerly sent her.

"When you see your good Lucy," said he, "(I am certain that she praysfor me, as I have done her much evil,) tell her that I thank her, andthat I trust in God that her prayer will return in blessings onherself."

They finally departed; they stopped for a few moments at the house ofthe tailor, where they heard sad relations of this terrible march,--theusual story of violence and plunder. The tailor's family, however, hadremained unmolested, as the army did not pass that way.

"Ah, signor curate!" said the tailor, as he was bidding him farewell,"here is a fine subject to appear in print!"

After having proceeded a short distance, our travellers beheldmelancholy traces of the destruction they had heard related. Vineyardsdespoiled, not by the vintager, but as if by a tempest; vines trampledunder foot; trees wounded and lopped of their branches; hedgesdestroyed; in the villages, doors broken open, window-frames dashed in,and streets filled with different articles of furniture and clothing,broken and torn to pieces. In the midst of lamentations and tears, thepeasants were occupied in repairing, as well as they could, the damagedone; while others, overcome by their miseries, remained in a state ofsilent despair. Having passed through these scenes of complicated woe,they at last succeeded in reaching their own dwellings, where theywitnessed the same destruction. Agnes immediately occupied herself in

reducing to order the little furniture that was left her, and inrepairing the damage done to her doors and windows; but she did notforget to count over in secret her crowns, thanking God in her heart,and her generous benefactor, that in the general overthrow of order andsafety she at least had fallen on her feet.

Don Abbondio and Perpetua entered their house without being obliged tohave recourse to keys. In addition to the miserable destruction of alltheir furniture, whose various fragments impeded their entrance, themost horrible odours for a time drove them back; and when theseobstacles were at last surmounted, and the rooms were entered, theyfound indignity added to mischief. Frightful and grotesque figures ofpriests, with their square caps and bands, were drawn with pieces ofcoal upon the walls in all sorts of ridiculous attitudes.

"Ah, the hogs!" cried Perpetua.--"Ah, the thieves!" exclaimed DonAbbondio. Hastening into the garden, they approached the fig-tree, andbeheld the earth newly turned up, and, to their utter dismay, the tombwas opened, and the dead was gone. Don Abbondio scolded Perpetua for herbad management, who was not slack in repelling his complaints. Bothpointing backwards to the unlucky hiding place, at length returned tothe house, and set about endeavouring to purify it of some of itsaccumulated filth, as at such a time it was impossible to procureassistance for the purpose. With money lent them by Agnes, they were insome measure enabled to replace their articles of furniture.

For some time this disaster was the source of continual disputes betweenPerpetua and her master; the former having discovered that some of theproperty, which they supposed to have been taken by the soldiers, wasactually in possession of certain people of the village, she tormentedhim incessantly to claim it. There could not have been touched a chordmore hateful to Don Abbondio, since the property was in the hands ofthat class of persons with whom he had it most at heart to live inpeace.

"But I don't wish to know these things," said he. "How many times must Itell you that what has happened has? Must I get myself into troubleagain, because my house has been robbed?"

"You would suffer your eyes to be pulled from your head, I verilybelieve," said Perpetua; "others hate to be robbed, but you, you seem tolike it."

"This is pretty language to hold, indeed! Will you be quiet?"

Perpetua kept silence, but continually found new pretexts for resumingthe conversation; so that the poor man was obliged to suppress everycomplaint at the loss of such or such a thing, as she would say, "Go andfind it at such a person's house, who has it, and who would not havekept it until now if he had not known what kind of a man he had to dealwith."

But here we will leave poor Don Abbondio, having more important thingsto speak of than his fears, or the misery of a few villagers from atransient disaster like this.

CHAPTER XXXI.

The pestilence, as the Tribunal of Health had feared, did enter theMilanese with the German troops. It is also known that it was notlimited to that territory, but that it spread over and desolated a greatpart of Italy. Our story requires us, at present, to relate theprincipal circumstances of this great calamity, as far as it affectedthe Milanese, and principally the city of Milan itself, for thechroniclers of the period confine their relations chiefly to this place.At the same time we cannot avoid giving a general though brief sketch ofan event in the history of our country more talked of than understood.

Many partial narratives written at the time are still extant; but theseconvey but an imperfect view of the subject, historically speaking. Itis true they serve to illustrate and confirm one another, and furnishmaterials for a history; but the history is still wanting. Strange tosay, no writer has hitherto attempted to reduce them to order, andexhibit all the various events, public and private acts, causes andconjectures, relative to this calamity, in a concatenated series.Ripamonti's narrative, though far more ample than any other, is stillvery defective. We shall, therefore, attempt, in the following pages, topresent the reader with a succinct, but accurate and continuous,statement of this fatal scourge.

In all the line of country which had been over-run by the army, deadbodies had been found in the houses, as well as on the roads. Soonafter, throughout the whole country, entire families were attacked withviolent disorders, accompanied with unusual symptoms, which the agedonly remembered to have seen at the time of the plague, which,fifty-three years before, had desolated a great part of Italy, andprincipally the Milanese, where it was and still is known by the name ofthe Plague of San Carlo. It derives this appellation from the noble,beneficent, and disinterested conduct of that great man, who at lengthbecame its victim.

Ludovico Settala, a physician distinguished so long ago as during theformer plague, announced to the Tribunal of Health, by the 20th ofOctober, that the contagion had indisputably appeared at Lecco; but nomeasures were taken upon this report. Further notices of a like importinduced them to despatch a commissioner, with a physician of Como, who,most unaccountably, upon the report of an old barber of Bellano,announced that the prevailing disease arose merely from the autumnalexhalation from the marshes, aggravated by the sufferings caused by thepassage of the German troops.

Meanwhile, further intelligence of the new disease, and of the number ofdeaths, arriving from all parts, two commissioners were sent to examinethe places where it had appeared, and, if necessary, to use precautionsto prevent its increase. The scourge had already spread to such anextent, as to leave no doubt of its character. The commissioners passedthrough the territories of Lecco, the borders of the lake of Como, thedistricts of Monte-Brianza, and Gera-d'Adda, and found the villagesevery where in a state of barricade, or deserted, and the inhabitantsflying, or encamped in the middle of the fields, or dispersed abroad

throughout the country; "like so many wild creatures," says DoctorTadino, one of the envoys, "they were carrying about them some imaginarysafeguard against the dreaded disease, such as sprigs of mint, rue, orrosemary, and even vinegar." Informing themselves of the number ofdeaths, the commissioners became alarmed, and visiting the sick and thedead, recognised the terrible and infallible evidences of the _plague_!

Upon this information, orders were given to close the gates of Milan.

The Tribunal of Health, on the 14th of November, directed thecommissioners to wait on the governor, in order to represent to him thesituation of affairs. He replied, that he was very sorry for it; butthat the cares of war were much more pressing: this was the second timehe had made the same answer under similar circumstances. Two or threedays after, he published a decree, prescribing public rejoicings on thebirth of Prince Charles, the first son of Philip IV., without troublinghimself with the danger which would result from so great a concourse ofpeople at such a time; just as if things were going on in their ordinarycourse, and no dreadful evil was hanging over them.

This man was the celebrated Ambrose Spinola, who died a few monthsafter, and during this very war which he had so much at heart,--not inthe field, but in his bed, and through grief and vexation at thetreatment he experienced from those whose interests he had served.History has loudly extolled his merits; she has been silent upon hisbase inhumanity in risking the dissemination of that worst of mortalcalamities, plague, over a country committed to his trust.

But that which diminishes our astonishment at his indifference is theindifference of the people themselves, of that part of the populationwhich the contagion had not yet reached, but who had so many motives todread it. The scarcity of the preceding year, the exactions of the army,and the anxiety of mind which had been endured, appeared to them morethan sufficient to explain the mortality of the surrounding country.They heard with a smile of incredulity and contempt any who hazarded aword on the danger, or who even mentioned the plague. The sameincredulity, the same blindness, the same obstinacy, prevailed in thesenate, the council of ten, and in all the judicial bodies. CardinalFrederick alone enjoined his curates to impress upon the people theimportance of declaring every case, and of sequestrating all infected orsuspected goods. The Tribunal of Health, prompted by the two physicians,who fully apprehended the danger, did take some tardy measures; but invain. A proclamation to prevent the entrance of strangers into the citywas not published until the 29th of November. This was too late; theplague was already in Milan.

It must be difficult, however interesting, to discover the first causeof a calamity which swept off so many thousands of the inhabitants ofthe city; but both Tadino and Ripamonti agree that it was broughtthither by an Italian soldier in the service of Spain, who had eitherbought or stolen a quantity of clothes from the German soldiers. He wason a visit to his parents in Milan, when he fell sick, and, beingcarried to the hospital, died on the fourth day.

The Tribunal of Health condemned the house he had lived in; his clothesand the bed he had occupied in the hospital were consigned to theflames. Two servants and a good friar, who had attended him, fell sick a

few days after; but the suspicions from the first entertained of thenature of the malady, and the precautions used, prevented its extensionfor the present.

But in the house from which the soldier had been taken there wereseveral attacked by the disease; upon which all the inhabitants of itwere conducted to the lazaretto, by order of the Tribunal of Health.

The contagion made but little progress during the rest of this year andthe beginning of the following. From time to time there were a fewpersons attacked, but the rarity of the occurrence diminished thesuspicion of the plague, and confirmed the multitude in their disbeliefof its existence. Added to this, most of the physicians joined with thepeople in laughing at the unhappy presages and threatening opinions ofthe smaller number of their brethren: the cases that did occur theypretended to explain upon other grounds; and the account of these caseswas seldom presented to the Tribunal of Health. Fear of the lazarettokept all on the alert; the sick were concealed, and false certificateswere obtained from some subaltern officers of health, who were deputedto inspect the dead bodies. Those physicians, who, convinced of thereality of the contagion, proposed precautions against it, were theobjects of general animadversion. But the principal objects ofexecration were Tadino and the senator Settala, who were stigmatised asenemies of their country, men whose best exertions had been directedtowards mitigating the severity of the coming mischief. Even theillustrious Settala, the aged father of the senator, whose talents wereequalled by his benevolence, was obliged to take refuge in a friend'shouse from the popular fury, because he had constantly urged thenecessity of precautionary measures.

Towards the end of the month of March, at first in the suburb of theeastern gate, then in the rest of the city, deaths, attended by singularsymptoms, such as spasms, delirium, livid spots and buboes, began to bemore frequent. Sudden deaths, too, were frequent, without any previousillness. The physicians still perversely held out; but the magistracywere aroused. The Tribunal of Health called on them to enforce theirdirections; to raise the requisite funds for the growing expenses of thelazaretto, as well as the helpless poor. The malady advanced rapidly. Inthe lazaretto all was confusion, bad arrangement, and anarchy. In theirdifficulty on this point the Tribunal had recourse to the capuchins, andconjured the father provincial to give them a man capable of governingthis region of desolation. He offered them Father Felice Casati, whoenjoyed a high reputation for charity, activity, and kindness ofdisposition, added to great strength of mind, and as a companion to him,Father Michele Pozzobonelli, who, although young, was of a grave andthoughtful character. They were joyfully accepted, and on the 30th ofMarch they entered on their duties. As the crowd in the lazarettoincreased, other capuchins joined them, willingly performing everyoffice both of spiritual and of temporal kindness, even the most menial;the Father Felice, indefatigable in his labours, watched with unceasingand parental care over the multitude. He caught the plague, was cured,and resumed his duties even with greater alacrity. Most of his brethrenjoyfully sacrificed their lives in this cause of afflicted humanity.

Not being able longer to deny the terrible effects of the malady, whichhad now reached the family of the physician Settala, and was spreadingits ravages in many noble families, those medical men who had been

incredulous were still unwilling to acknowledge its true cause, whichwould have been a tacit condemnation of themselves; they thereforeimagined one entirely conformable to the prejudices of the time. It wasat that period a prevailing opinion in all Europe, that enchantersexisted, diabolical operators, who at this time conspired to spread theplague, by the aid of venomous poisons and witchcraft. Similar thingshad been affirmed and believed in other epidemics; particularly atMilan, in that of the preceding century. Moreover, towards the end ofthe preceding year, a despatch had arrived from King Philip IV. givinginformation that four Frenchmen, suspected of spreading poisons andpestilential substances, had escaped from Madrid, and ordering thatwatch should be kept to ascertain if by chance they had arrived atMilan.

The governor communicated the despatch to the senate, and the Tribunalof Health. It then excited no attention; but when the plague broke out,and was acknowledged by all, this intelligence was remembered, and itserved to confirm the vague suspicion of criminal agency: two incidentsconverted this vague suspicion into conviction of a positive and realconspiracy. Some persons who imagined they saw, on the evening of the17th of May, individuals rubbing a partition of the cathedral, carriedthe partition out of the church in the night, together with a greatquantity of benches. The president of the senate, with four persons ofhis tribunal, visited the partition, the benches, and the basins of holywater, and found nothing which confirmed the ridiculous suspicion ofpoison. However, to satisfy the disturbed imaginations of the populace,it was decided that the partition should be washed and purified. But theincident became a text for conjecture to the people; it was affirmed,that the poisoners had rubbed all the benches and walls of thecathedral, and even the bell-ropes.

The next morning a new and more strange and significant spectacle struckthe wondering eyes of the citizens. In all parts of the city the doorsof the houses and the walls were plastered with long streaks of whitishyellow dirt, which appeared to have been rubbed on with a sponge.Whether it was a wicked pleasantry to excite more general and thrillingalarm, or that it had been done from the guilty design of increasing thepublic disorder; whatever was the motive, the fact is so well attested,that it cannot be attributed to imagination. The city, already alarmed,was thrown into the utmost confusion; the owners of houses purified allinfected places; strangers were stopped in the streets on suspicion, andconducted to prison, where they underwent long interrogatories whichnaturally ended in proving none of these absurd and imaginary practicesagainst them. The Tribunal of Health published a decree, offering areward to whomsoever should discover the author or authors of thisattempt; but they did this, as they wrote to the governor, only tosatisfy the people and calm their fears,--a weak and dangerousexpedient, and calculated to confirm the popular belief.

In the mean time many attributed this story of the poisoned ointment tothe revenge of Gonsalvo Fernandez de Cordova; others to CardinalRichelieu, in order the more easily to get possession of Milan; othersagain affixed the crime to various Milanese gentlemen.

There were still many who were not persuaded that it was the plague,because if it were, every one infected would die of it; whereas a fewrecovered. To dissipate every doubt, the Tribunal of Health made use of

an expedient conformable to the necessity of the occasion; they made anaddress to the eyes, such as the spirit of the times suggested. On oneof the days of the feast of Pentecost, the inhabitants of the city wereaccustomed to go to the burying ground of San Gregorio, beyond theeastern gate, in order to pray for the dead in the last plague. Turningthe season of devotion into one of amusement, every one was attired inhis best; on that day a whole family, among others, had died of theplague. At the hour in which the concourse was most numerous, the deadbodies of this family were, by order of the Tribunal of Health, drawnnaked on a carriage towards this same burying ground; so that the crowdmight behold for themselves the manifest traces, the hideous impress ofthe disease. A cry of alarm and horror arose wherever the car passed;their incredulity was at least shaken, but it is probable that the greatconcourse tended to spread the infection.

Still it was not absolutely the _plague_; the use of the word wasprohibited, it was a pestilential fever, the adjective was preferred tothe substantive,--then, not the true plague,--that is to say, theplague, but only in a certain sense,--and further, combined with poisonand witchcraft. Such is the absurd trifling with which men seek to blindthemselves, wilfully abstaining from a sound exercise of judgment toarrive at the truth.

Meanwhile, as it became from day to day more difficult to raise funds tomeet the painful exigencies of circumstances, the council of tenresolved to have recourse to government. They represented, by twodeputies, the state of misery and distress of the city, the enormity ofthe expense, the revenues anticipated, and the taxes withheld inconsequence of the general poverty which had been produced by so manycauses, and especially by the pillaging of the soldiery. That accordingto various laws, and a special decree of Charles V., the expense of theplague ought by right to devolve upon government. Finally, theyproceeded to make four demands: that the taxes should be suspended; thatthe chamber should advance funds; that the governor should make known tothe king the calamitous state of the city and province; and that theduchy, already exhausted, should be excused from providing quarters forthe soldiery. Spinola replied with new regrets and exhortations;declaring himself grieved not to be able to visit Milan in person, inorder to employ himself for the preservation of the city, but hopingthat the zeal of the magistrates would supply his place: in short, hemade evasive answers to all their requests. Afterwards, when the plaguewas at its height, he transferred, by letters patent, his authority tothe high chancellor Ferrer, being, as he said, obliged to devote himselfentirely to the cares of the war.

The council of ten then requested the cardinal to order a solemnprocession, for the purpose of carrying through the streets the body ofSan Carlos. The good prelate refused; this confidence in a doubtfulmeans disturbed him, and he feared that, if the effect should not beobtained, confidence would be converted into infidelity, and rebellionagainst God. He also feared that if there really were poisoners, thisprocession would be a favourable occasion for their machinations; and ifthere were not, so great a collection would have a tendency to spreadthe contagion.

The doors of public edifices and private houses had been again anointedas at first. The news flew from mouth to mouth; the people, influenced

by present suffering, and by the imminence of the supposed danger,readily embraced the belief. The idea of subtle instantaneous poisonseemed sufficient to explain the violence, and the almostincomprehensible circumstances, of the disease. Add to this the idea ofenchantment, and any effect was possible, every objection was renderedfeeble, every difficulty was explained. If the effects did notimmediately succeed the first attempt, the cause was easy to assign: ithad been done by those to whom the art was new; and now that it wasbrought to perfection, the perpetrators were more confirmed in theirinfernal resolution. If any one had dared to suggest its having beendone in jest, or denied the existence of a dark plot, he would havepassed for an obstinate fool, if he did not incur the suspicion of beinghimself engaged in it. With such persuasions on their minds, all were onthe alert to discover the guilty; the most indifferent action excitedsuspicion, suspicion was changed to certainty, and certainty to rage.

As illustrations of this, Ripamonti cites two examples which fell underhis own observation, and such were of daily occurrence.

In the church of St. Antonio, on a day of some great solemnity, an oldman, after having prayed for some time on his knees, rose to seathimself, and before doing so, wiped the dust from the bench with hishandkerchief. "The old man is poisoning the bench," cried some women,who beheld the action. The crowd in the church threw themselves uponhim, tore his white hair, and after beating him, drew him out half dead,to carry him to prison and to torture. "I saw the unfortunate man," saysRipamonti; "I never knew the end of his painful story, but at the time Ithought he had but a few moments to live."

The other event occurred the next day; it was as remarkable, but not asfatal. Three young Frenchmen having come to visit Italy, and study itsantiquities, had approached the cathedral, and were contemplating itvery attentively. Some persons, who were passing by, stopped; a circlewas formed around them; they were not lost sight of for a moment, havingbeen recognised as strangers, and especially Frenchmen. As if to assurethemselves that the wall was marble, the young artists extended theirhands to touch it. This was enough. In a moment they were surrounded,and, with imprecations and blows, dragged to prison. Happily, however,they were proved to be innocent, and released.

These things were not confined to the city; the frenzy was propagatedequally with the contagion. The traveller encountered off the high road,the stranger whose habits or appearance were in any respect singular,were judged to be poisoners. At the first intelligence of a new comer,at the cry even of a child, the alarm bell was rung; and the unfortunatepersons were assailed with showers of stones, or seized and conducted toprison. And thus the prison itself was, during a certain period, a placeof safety.

Meanwhile, the council of ten, not silenced by the refusal of the wiseprelate, again urged their request for the procession, which the peopleseconded by their clamours. The cardinal again resisted, but findingresistance useless, he finally yielded; he did more, he consented thatthe case which enclosed the relics of San Carlos should be exposed foreight days on the high altar of the cathedral.

The Tribunal of Health and the other authorities did not oppose this

proceeding; they only ordained some precautions, which, withoutobviating the danger, indicated too plainly their apprehensions. Theyissued severe orders to prevent people from abroad entering the city;and, to insure their execution, commanded the gates to be closed. Theyalso nailed up the condemned houses; "the number of which," says acontemporary writer, "amounted to about five hundred."

Three days were employed in preparation; on the 11th of June theprocession left the cathedral at daybreak: a long file of people,composed for the most part of women, their faces covered with silkmasks, and many of them with bare feet, and clothed in sackcloth,appeared first. The tradesmen came next, preceded by their banners; thesocieties, in habits of various forms and colours; then thebrotherhoods, then the secular clergy, each with the insignia of hisrank, and holding a lighted taper in his hand. In the midst, among thebrilliant light of the torches, and the resounding echo of thecanticles, the case advanced, covered with a rich canopy, and carriedalternately by four canons, sumptuously attired. Through the crystalwere seen the mortal remains of the saint, clothed in his pontificalrobes, and his head covered with a mitre. In his mutilated featuresmight still be distinguished some traces of his former countenance, suchas his portraits represent him, and such as some of the spectatorsremembered to have beheld and honoured. Behind the remains of the holyprelate, and resembling him in merit, birth, and dignity, as well as inperson, came the Archbishop Frederick. The rest of the clergy followedhim, and with them the magistrates in their robes, then the nobility,some magnificently clothed, as if to do honour to the pomp of thecelebration, and others as penitents, in sackcloth and bare-footed, eachbearing a torch in his hand. A vast collection of people terminated theprocession.

The streets were ornamented as on festival days: the rich sent out theirmost precious furniture; and thus the fronts of the poorest houses weredecorated by their more wealthy neighbours, or at the expense of thepublic. Here, in the place of hangings, and there, over the hangingsthemselves, were suspended branches of trees; on all sides hungpictures, inscriptions, devices; on the balconies were displayed vases,rich antiquities, and valuable curiosities; with burning flambeaux atvarious stations. From many of the windows the sequestrated sick lookedout upon the procession, and mingled their prayers with those of thepeople as they passed. The procession returned to the cathedral aboutthe middle of the day.

But the next day, whilst presumptuous and fanatical assurance had takenpossession of every mind, the number of deaths augmented in all parts ofthe city in a progression so frightful, and in a manner so sudden, thatnone could avoid confessing the cause to have been the processionitself. However, (astonishing and deplorable power of prejudice!) thiseffect was not attributed to the assemblage of so many people, and tothe increase of fortuitous contact, but to the facility afforded to thepoisoners to execute their infernal purposes. But as this opinion couldnot account for so vast a mortality, and as no traces of strangesubstances had been discovered on the road of the procession, recoursewas had to another invention, admitted by general opinion inEurope--magical and poisoned powders! It was asserted that thesepowders, scattered profusely in the road, attached themselves to theskirts of the gowns, and to the feet of those who had been on that day

barefooted: thus the human mind delights itself with contending againstphantoms of its own creating.

The violence of the contagion increased daily; in short, there washardly a house that was not infected; the number of souls in thelazaretto amounted to 12,000, and sometimes to 16,000. The dailymortality, which had hitherto exceeded 500, soon increased to 1200 and1500.

We may imagine the agony of the council of ten, on whom rested theweighty burden of providing for the public necessities, and of repairingwhat was reparable in such a disaster: they had to replace every day,and every day to add to the number of individuals charged with publicservices of all kinds. Of these individuals there were three remarkableclasses; the first was that of the _monatti_: this appellation, ofdoubtful origin, was applied to those men who were devoted to the mostpainful and dangerous employment in times of contagion; the taking ofthe dead bodies from the houses, from the streets, and from thelazaretto, carrying them to their graves, and burying them; also,bringing the sick to the lazaretto, and burning and purifying suspectedor infected objects; the second class was that of the _apparitori_,whose special function was to precede the funeral cars, ringing a bellto warn passengers to retire; and the third was that of thecommissaries, who presided over both the other classes, under theimmediate orders of the Tribunal of Health.

It was necessary to keep the lazaretto furnished with medicine,surgeons, food, and all the requisites of an infirmary; and it was alsonecessary to find and prepare new habitations for new cases. Cabins ofwood and straw were hastily constructed in the interior enclosure of thelazaretto; then a second lazaretto, a little beyond, was erected,capable of containing 4000 persons. Two others were ordered, but means,men, and courage failed, and they were never completed: despair andweakness had attained such a point, that the most urgent and painfulwants were unprovided for; each day, for example, children, whosemothers had perished of the plague, died from neglect. The Tribunal ofHealth proposed to found an hospital for these innocent creatures, butcould obtain no assistance for the purpose; all supplies were for thearmy, "because," said the governor, "it is a time of war, and we musttreat the soldiers well."

Meanwhile the immense ditch which had been dug near the lazaretto wasfilled with dead bodies; a number still remained without sepulture, ashands were wanting for the work. Without extraordinary aid this calamitymust have remained unremedied. The president of the senate addressedhimself in tears to the two intrepid friars who governed the lazaretto,and the Father Michele pledged himself to relieve in four days the cityof the unburied dead, and to dig, in the course of a week, another ditchsufficient not only for present wants, but even for those which might beanticipated in future. Followed by another friar, and public officerschosen by the president, he went into the country to procure peasants,and partly by the authority of the tribunal, partly by that of hishabit, he gathered 200, whom he employed to dig the earth. He thendespatched _monatti_ from the lazaretto to collect the dead. At theappointed time his promise was fulfilled.

At one time the lazaretto was left without physicians, and it was only

after much trouble and time, and great offers of money and honours, thatothers could be prevailed on to supply their place. Provisions wereoften so scarce, as to create apprehensions of starvation, but more thanonce these necessities were unexpectedly supplied by the charity ofindividuals. In the midst of the general stupor, or the indifference tothe miseries of others, occasioned by personal apprehension, some werefound whose hands and hearts had ever been open to the wretched, andothers with whom the virtue of benevolence had commenced with the lossof all their terrestrial happiness. So also, amidst the destruction ofthe flight of so many men charged with watching over and providing forthe public safety, others were seen, who, well in body and firm in mind,ever remained faithful at their post, and some even, who, by anadmirable self-devotion, sustained with heroic constancy cares to whichtheir duty did not call them.

The most entire self-devotion was especially conspicuous among theclergy; at the lazarettos, in the city, their assistance was always athand; they were found, wherever there was suffering, always inattendance on the sick and the dying; very often languishing and dyingthemselves: with spiritual, they bestowed, as far as they could,temporal succour. More than sixty clergymen in the city alone died fromthe contagion, which was nearly eight out of nine.

Frederick, as might be expected, was an example to all; after havingseen all his household perish around him, he was solicited by hisfamily, by the first magistrates, and by the neighbouring princes, tofly the peril, but he rejected their advice and their solicitations withthe same firmness which induced him to write to the clergy of hisdiocese:--"Be disposed to abandon life rather than these sufferers, whoare your children, and your family; go with the same joy into the midstof the pestilence, as to a certain reward, since you may, by thesemeans, win many souls to Christ." He neglected no precaution compatiblewith his duty: he even gave instructions to his clergy on this point;but he betrayed no anxiety, nor did he even appear to perceive danger,where it was necessary to incur it, in order to do good. He was alwayswith the ecclesiastics, to praise and direct the zealous, and to excitethe lukewarm; he visited the lazarettos to console the sick, andencourage those who assisted them; he travelled over the city, carryingaid to the miserable who were sequestered in their houses, stopping attheir doors and under their windows, to listen to their complaints, andto give them words of consolation and encouragement. Having thus thrownhimself into the midst of the contagion, it was truly wonderful that henever was attacked by it.

In seasons of public calamity, when confusion takes the place of order,we often behold a display of the sublimest virtue, but more frequently,alas! an increase of vice and crime. Instances of the latter were notwanting during the present unhappy period. The profligate, spared by theplague, found in the common confusion, and in the slackening of therestraints of law, new occasions for mischief, and new assurances ofimpunity. And further, power itself had passed into the hands of theboldest among them. There were scarcely found for the functions of_monatti_ and _apparitori_ any, but those over whom the attraction ofrapine and licence had more sway than dread of the contagion. Strictrules had been prescribed to them, and severe penalties threatened forinfringing them, which had some power for awhile; but the number ofdeaths, and the increasing desolation, and the universal alarm, soon

relieved them from all superintendence, and they constituted themselves(the _monatti_ in particular) the arbiters of every thing. They enteredhouses as masters and enemies; and, not to mention their robberies, andthe cruel treatment which those unhappy persons experienced whom theplague condemned to their authority, they applied their infected andcriminal hands to those in health, threatening to carry them to thelazaretto, unless they purchased their exemption with money. At othertimes they refused to carry off the dead bodies already in a state ofputrefaction, without a high price being paid them; it is even said,that they designedly let fall from their carts infected clothing, inorder to propagate the infection from which their wealth was derived.Many ruffians, too, assuming the garb of these wretches, carried onextensive robberies in the houses of the sick, dying, and helpless.

In the same proportion as vice increased, folly increased; the foolishidea was again revived of _poisonings_; the dread of this fantasticdanger beset and tormented the minds of men more than the real andpresent danger. "While," says Ripamonti, "the heaps of dead bodies lyingbefore the eyes of the living made the city a vast tomb, there wassomething more afflicting and hideous still--reciprocal distrust andextravagant suspicion; and this not only between friends, neighbours,and guests; but husbands, wives, and children, became objects of terrorto one another, and, horrible to tell! even the domestic board and thenuptial bed were dreaded as snares, as places were poison might beconcealed."

Besides ambition and cupidity, the motives commonly attributed to thepoisoners, it was imagined that this action included an indefinable,diabolical voluptuousness of enjoyment, an attractiveness stronger thanthe will. The ravings of the sick, who accused themselves of that whichthey had dreaded in others, were considered as so many involuntaryrevelations, which rendered belief irresistible.

Among the stories recorded of this delirium, there is one which deservesto be related, on account of the extensive credence it obtained.

It was said that on a certain day, a citizen had seen an equipage withsix horses stop in the square of the cathedral. Within it was a personof a noble and majestic figure, dark complexion, eyes inflamed, and lipscompressed and threatening. The spectator being invited to enter thecarriage, complied. After a short circuit, it made a halt before thegate of a magnificent palace. Entering it he beheld mingled scenes ofdelight and horror, frightful deserts and smiling gardens, dark cavernsand magnificent saloons. Phantoms were seated in council. They showedhim large boxes of money, telling him he might take as many of them ashe chose, provided he would accept at the same time a little vase ofpoison, and consent to employ it against the citizens. He refused, andin a moment found himself at the place from which he had been taken.This story, generally believed by the people, spread all over Italy. Anengraving of it was made in Germany. The Archbishop of Mayence wrote toCardinal Frederick, asking him what credence might be attached to theprodigies related of Milan. He received for answer, that they were allidle dreams.

The dreams of the learned, if they were not of the same nature as thoseof the vulgar, did not exceed them in value; the greater part beheld theforerunner and the cause of these calamities, in a comet which appeared

in 1628, and in the conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn. Another cometthat appeared in June in the same year announced the poisonousanointings. All writings were ransacked that contained any passagesrespecting poisons; amongst the ancients, Livy was cited, Tacitus,Dionysius, even Homer and Ovid were searched. Among the moderns,Cesalpino, Cardan, Grevino, Salio, Pareo Schenchio, Zachia, and lastlythe fatal Delrio, whose _Disquisitions on Magic_ became the text book onsuch subjects, the future rule, and, in fact, the powerful impulse tohorrible and frequent legal murders.

The physicians yielded to the popular belief, and attributed to poisonand diabolical conjurations the ordinary symptoms of the malady. EvenTadino himself, one of the most celebrated physicians of his day, whohad witnessed the entrance of the disorder, anticipated its ravages,studied its symptoms, and admitted it to be _the plague_, even he, suchis the strange perversity of human reason, drew from all these facts anargument in proof of the dissemination of some subtle poison, by meansof ointments. Nor was the enlightened Cardinal Frederick himselfaltogether uninfected by the general mania. In a small tract of his onthe subject in the Ambrosian Library, he says, "Of the mode ofcompounding and dispensing these ointments, various statements have beenmade, some of which we hold for true, while others appear imaginary."

On the other hand, Muratori tells us, that he had met with well-informedpersons in Milan, whose ancestors were decidedly convinced of theabsurdity of this widely spread and extraordinary error, but whosesafety rendered it imperative on them to keep their sentiments on thesubject to themselves.

The magistrates employed the little vigilance and resolution whichremained to them in searching out the poisoners, and unhappily thoughtthey had detected them. A recital of these and similar cases would forma remarkable feature in the history of jurisprudence. But it is hightime we should resume the thread of our story.

CHAPTER XXXII.

One night, towards the end of the month of August, in the very height ofthe pestilence, Don Roderick returned to his house at Milan, accompaniedby his faithful Griso, one of the small number of his servants who stillsurvived. He had just left a company of friends, who were accustomed toassemble together, to banish by debauchery the melancholy of the times;at each meeting there were new guests added, and old ones missing. Onthat day Don Roderick had been one of the gayest, and, among othersubjects of merriment which he introduced, he had made the company laughat a mock funeral sermon on Count Attilio, who had been carried off bythe pestilence a few days before.

After leaving the house where he had held his carousal, he was consciousof an uneasiness, a faintness, a weariness of his limbs, a difficulty ofbreathing, and an internal heat, which he was ready to attribute to thewine, the late hour, and the influence of the season. He spoke not aword during the whole route. Arriving at his house, he ordered Griso to

light him to his chamber. Griso, perceiving the change in his master'scountenance, kept at a distance, as, in these dangerous times, every onewas obliged to keep for himself, as was said, a medical eye.

"I feel very well, do you see," said Don Roderick, reading in thefeatures of Griso the thoughts which were passing through his mind,--"Ifeel very well; but I have drank a little too much. The wine was sofine! With a good sleep all will be well again. I am overcome by sleep.Take away the light; I cannot bear it; it troubles me."

"It is the effect of the wine, signor," said Griso, still keeping at adistance; "but go to bed, sleep will do you good."

"You are right; if I could sleep---- I am well, were it not for the wantof sleep. Place the little bell near me, in case I should wantsomething; and be attentive if I ring. But I shall need nothing. Carryaway that cursed light," added he; "it troubles me more than I cantell."

Griso carried off the light; and, wishing his master a good night, hequitted the apartment as Don Roderick crouched beneath the bed-clothes.

But the bed-clothes weighed upon him like a mountain; throwing them off,he endeavoured to compose himself to sleep; hardly had he closed hiseyes when he awoke with a start, as if he had been roused by a blow, andhe felt that the pain and fever had increased. He endeavoured to findthe cause of his sufferings in the heat of the weather, the wine, andthe debauch in which he had just been engaged; but one ideainvoluntarily mingled itself with all his reflections, an idea at whichhe had been laughing all the evening with his companions, as it waseasier to make it a subject of raillery than to drive it away,--the ideaof the plague.

After having struggled a long time, he at last fell asleep, but wastormented by frightful dreams. It appeared to him that he was in a vastchurch, in the midst of a crowd of people. How he came there he couldnot tell, nor how the thought to do so could have entered his head,especially at such a time. Looking on those by whom he was surrounded,he perceived them to be lean, livid figures, with wild and glaring eyes;the garments of these hideous creatures fell in shreds from theirbodies, and through them might be seen frightful blotches and swellings.He thought he cried, "Give way, you rascals!" as he looked towards thedoor, which was far, far off, accompanying the cry with a menacingexpression of countenance, and wrapping his arms around his body toprevent coming in contact with them, for they seemed to be touching himon every side. But they moved not, nor even seemed to hear him: itappeared to him, however, that some one amongst them, with his elbow,pressed his left side near his heart, where he felt a painful pricking.Trying to withdraw himself from so irksome a situation, he experienced arecurrence of the sensation. Irritated beyond measure, he stretched outhis hand for his sword, and, behold, it had glided the whole length ofhis body, and the hilt of it was pressing him in this very place. Vainlydid he endeavour to remove it, every effort only increased his agonies.Agitated and out of breath, he again cried aloud; at the sound, allthose wild and hideous phantoms rushed to one side of the church,leaving the pulpit exposed to view, in which stood, with his venerablecountenance, his bald head and white beard, Father Christopher. It

appeared to Don Roderick that the capuchin, after having looked over theassembly, fixed his eyes upon him, with the same expression as on thewell-remembered interview in his castle, and, at the same time, raisedhis arm, and held it suspended above his head; making an effort toarrest the blow, a cry which struggled in his throat escaped him, and heawoke. He opened his eyes; the light of day, which was already advanced,pressed upon his brain, and imparted as keen an anguish as the torch ofthe preceding night. Looking around on his bed and his room, hecomprehended that it was a dream; the church, the crowd, the friar, allhad vanished; but not so the pain in his left side. He was sensible ofan agonising and rapid beating of his heart, a buzzing in his ears, aninternal heat which consumed him, and a weight and weariness in hislimbs greater than when he went to bed. He could not resolve to look atthe spot where he felt the pain; but, finally gathering courage to doso, he beheld with horror a hideous tumour of a livid purple.

Don Roderick saw that he was lost. The fear of death took possession ofhim, and with it came the apprehension, stronger perhaps than the dreadof death itself, of becoming the prey of the _monatti_, and of beingthrown into the lazaretto. Endeavouring to think of some means ofavoiding this terrible fate, he experienced a confusion and obscurity inhis ideas which told him that the moment was fast approaching when heshould have no feeling left but of despair. Seizing the bell, he shookit violently. Griso, who was on the watch, appeared immediately;stopping at a distance from the bed, he looked attentively at hismaster, and became certain of that which he had only conjectured thenight before.

"Griso," said Don Roderick, with difficulty raising himself in his bed,"you have always been my favourite."

"Yes, my lord."

"I have always done well by you."

"The consequence of your goodness."

"I can trust you, I think. I am ill, Griso."

"I perceived that you were."

"If I am cured, I will do still more for you than I have ever yet done."

Griso made no answer, waiting to see to what this preamble would lead.

"I would not trust any one but you," resumed Don Roderick; "do me afavour."

"Command me."

"Do you know where the surgeon Chiodo lives?"

"I do."

"He is an honest man, who, if he be well paid, keeps secret the sick. Goto him; tell him I will give him four or six crowns a visit,--more, ifhe wishes it. Tell him to come here immediately; act with prudence; let

no one get knowledge of it."

"Well thought of," said Griso; "I will return immediately."

"First, Griso, give me a little water; I burn with thirst."

"No, my lord, nothing without the advice of a physician. This is a rapiddisease, and there is no time to lose. Be tranquil. In the twinkling ofan eye, I will be here with the signor Chiodo." So saying, he left theroom.

Don Roderick followed him in imagination to the house of Chiodo, countedhis steps, measured the time. He often looked at his side, but,horror-struck, could only regard it a moment. Continuing to listenintently for the arrival of the surgeon, this effort of attentionsuspended the sense of suffering, and left him the free exercise of histhoughts. Suddenly he heard a noise of small bells, which appeared tocome from some of the apartments, and not from the street. Listeningagain, he heard it louder, and at the same time a sound of steps. Ahorrible suspicion darted across his mind. He sat up, listened stillmore attentively, and heard a sound in the next chamber, as of a chestcarefully placed on the floor; he threw his limbs out of bed, so as tobe ready to rise; and kept his eyes fastened on the door; it opened,and, behold, two _monatti_ with their diabolical countenances, andcursed liveries, advancing towards the bed, whilst from the half-opendoor was seen the figure of Griso, awaiting the success of his sordidtreachery.

"Ah, infamous traitor! Begone, rascals! Biondino, Carlotto, help!murder!" cried Don Roderick, extending his hand under his pillow for hispistol.

At his very first cry the _monatti_ had rushed towards the bed, and themost active of the two was upon him before he could make anothermovement; jerking the pistol from his hand, and throwing it on thefloor, he forced him to lie down, crying in an accent of rage andmockery, "Ah, scoundrel! against the _monatti_! against the ministers ofthe tribunal!"

"Keep him down until we are ready to carry him out," said the other, ashe advanced to a strong box. Griso entered the room, and with himcommenced forcing its lock. "Villain!" shouted Don Roderick, strugglingto get free: "let me kill this infamous rascal," said he to the_monatti_, "and then you may do with me what you will." He then calledagain loudly on his other servants, but in vain; the abominable Grisohad sent them far away with orders as if from his master, before hehimself went to propose this expedition, and a share of its spoils, tothe _monatti_.

"Be quiet, be quiet," said the man, who held him extended on the bed, tothe unhappy Don Roderick; then, turning to those who were taking thebooty, he said, "Behave like honest men."

"You! you!" murmured Don Roderick to Griso, "you! after---- Ah, demonof hell! I may still be cured! I may still be cured!"

Griso spoke not a word, and was careful to avoid looking at his master.

"Hold him tight," said the other _monatto_, "he is frantic."

The unfortunate man, after many violent efforts, became suddenlyexhausted; but from time to time was seen to struggle feebly and vainly,for a moment, against his persecutors.

The _monatti_ deposited him on a hand-barrow which had been left in theouter room; one of them returned for the booty, then raising theirmiserable burden, they carried him off. Griso remained awhile to make aselection of such articles as were valuable and portable; he had beenvery careful not to touch the _monatti_, nor be touched by them; but, inhis thirst for gain, his prudence forsook him; taking the differentarticles of his master's dress from off the bed, he shook them, for thepurpose of ascertaining if there was money in them.

He had, however, occasion to remember his want of caution the next day;whilst carousing in a tavern, he was seized with a shivering, his eyesgrew dim, his strength failed, and he fell lifeless. Abandoned by hiscompanions, he fell into the hands of the _monatti_, who, after havingplundered him, threw him on a car, where he expired, before arriving atthe lazaretto to which his master had been carried.

We must leave Don Roderick in this abode of horror, and return to Renzo,whom our readers may remember we left in a manufactory under the name ofAntony Rivolta. He remained there five or six months; after which, warbeing declared between the republic and the King of Spain, and all fearon his account having ceased, Bortolo hastened to bring him back, bothbecause he was attached to him, and because Renzo was a great assistanceto the _factotum_ of a manufactory, without the possibility of his everaspiring to be one himself, on account of his inability to write.Bortolo was a good man, and in the main generous, but, like other men,he had his failings; and as this motive really had a place in hiscalculations, we have thought it our duty to state it. From this timeRenzo continued to work with his cousin. More than once, and especiallyafter having received a letter from Agnes, he felt a desire to turnsoldier; and opportunities were not wanting, for at this epoch therepublic was in want of recruits. The temptation was the stronger, asthere was a talk of invading the Milanese, and it appeared to him thatit would be a fine thing to return there as a conqueror, see Lucy again,and have an explanation with her; but Bortolo always diverted him fromthis resolution. "If they go there," said he, "they can go without you,and you can go afterwards at your leisure. If they return with brokenheads, you will be glad to have been out of the scrape. The Milanese isnot a mouthful to be easily swallowed; and then the question, my friend,turns on the power of Spain. Have a little patience. Are you not wellhere? I know what you will say; but if it is written above that theaffair shall succeed, succeed it will, without your committing morefollies. Some saint will come to your assistance. Believe me, war is nota trade for you. It needs men expressly trained to the business."

At other times Renzo thought of returning home in disguise, under afalse name, but Bortolo dissuaded him from this project also.

The plague afterwards spreading over all the Milanese, and advancing tothe Bergamascan territory----don't be alarmed, reader, our design is notto relate its history; all that we would say is, that Renzo was attacked

with it, and recovered. He was at death's door; but his strongconstitution repelling the disease, in a few days he was out of danger.With life, the hopes and recollections and projects of life returnedwith greater vigour than ever; more than ever were his thoughts occupiedwith his Lucy: what had become of her in these disastrous times? "To beat so short distance from her, and to know nothing concerning her, andto remain, God knows how long, in this uncertainty! and then her vow! Iwill go myself, I will go and relieve these terrible doubts," said he."If she lives, I will find her; I will hear herself explain thispromise; I will show her that it is not binding; and I will bring herhere, and poor Agnes also, who has always wished me well, and I am suredoes so still,--yes, I will go in search of them."

As soon as he was able to walk, he went in search of Bortolo, who hadkept himself shut up in his house, on account of the pestilence. Hecalled to him to come to the window.

"Ah, ah," said Bortolo, "you have recovered. It is well for you."

"I have still some weakness in my limbs, as you see, but I am out ofdanger."

"Oh, I wish I was on your legs. Formerly, when one said, _I am well_, itexpressed all that could be desired; but now-a-days that is of littleconsequence. When one can say _I am better_, that's the word for you!"

Renzo informed his cousin of his determination.

"Go now, and may Heaven bless you," replied he; "avoid the law as Ishall avoid the pestilence; and if it is the will of God, we shall seeeach other again."

"Oh, I shall certainly return. If I were only sure of not returningalone! I hope for the best."

"Well, I join in your hopes; if God wills, we will work, and livetogether here. Heaven grant you may find me here, and that this devilishdisease may have ceased."

"We shall meet again, we shall meet again, I am sure."

"I say again, God bless you."

In a few days Renzo, finding his strength sufficiently restored,prepared for his departure; he put on a girdle in which he placed thefifty crowns sent him by Agnes, together with his own small savings; hetook under his arm a small bundle of clothes, and secured in his pockethis certificate of good conduct from his second master; and having armedhimself with a good knife, a necessary appendage to an honest man inthose days, he commenced his journey towards the end of August, threedays after Don Roderick had been carried to the lazaretto. He took theroad to Lecco, before venturing into Milan, as he hoped to find Agnesthere, and learn from her some little of what he desired so much toknow.

The small number of those who had been cured of the plague formed aprivileged class amidst the rest of the population; those who had not

been attacked by the disease lived in perpetual apprehension of it; theywalked about with precaution, with an unquiet air, with a hurried andhesitating step; the former, on the contrary, nearly certain of security(for to have the plague twice was rather a prodigy than a rarity),advanced into the very midst of the pestilence with boldness andunconcern. With such security, tempered, however, by his own peculiaranxieties, and by the spectacle of the misery of a whole people, Renzotravelled towards his village, under a fine sky, and through a beautifulcountry; meeting on the way, after long intervals of dismal solitude,men more like shadows and wandering phantoms than living beings; or deadbodies about to be consigned to the trench without funeral rites.Towards the middle of the day he stopped in a grove to eat his meat andbread; he was bountifully supplied with fruits from the gardens by theroad, for the year was remarkably fertile, the trees along the road wereladen with figs, peaches, plums, apples, and other various kinds, withhardly a living creature to gather them.

Towards evening he discovered his village; although prepared for thesight, he felt his heart beat, and he was assailed in a moment by acrowd of painful recollections and harrowing presentiments: a deathlikesilence reigned around. His agitation increased as he entered thechurchyard, and became hardly supportable at the end of the lane--it wasthere, where stood the house of Lucy--one only of its inmates could nowbe there, and the only favour he asked from Heaven was to find Agnesstill living; he hoped to find an asylum at her cottage, as he judgedtruly that his own roust be in ruins.

As he went on he looked attentively before him, fearing, and at the sametime hoping, to meet some one from whom he might obtain information. Hesaw at last a man seated on the ground, leaning against a hedge ofjessamines, in the listless attitude of an idiot. He thought it must bethe poor simpleton Jervase, who had been employed as a witness in hisunsuccessful expedition to the curate's house. But approaching nearer,he recognised it to be Anthony. The disease had affected his mind, aswell as his body, so that in every act a slight resemblance to his weakbrother might be traced.

"Oh, Tony," said Renzo, stopping before him, "is it you?" Tony raisedhis eyes, but not his head.

"Tony, do you not know me?"

"Is it my turn? Is it my turn?" replied he.

"Poor Tony! do you indeed not know me?"

"Is it my turn? Is it my turn?" replied he, with an idiotic smile, andthen stood with his mouth open.

Renzo, seeing he could draw nothing from him, passed on still moreafflicted than before. Suddenly, at a turn of the path, he beheldadvancing towards him a person whom he recognised to be Don Abbondio.His pale countenance and general appearance showed that he also had notescaped the tempest. The curate, seeing a stranger, anxiously examinedhis person, whose costume was that of Bergamo. At length he recognisedRenzo with much surprise.

"Is it he, indeed?" thought he, and raised his hands with a movement ofwonder and dismay. His wasted arms seemed trembling in his sleeves,which before could hardly contain them.

Renzo, hastening towards him, bowed profoundly; for, although he hadquitted him in anger, he still felt respect for him as his curate.

"You here! you!" cried Don Abbondio.

"Yes, I am here, as you see. Do you know any thing of Lucy?"

"How should I know? nothing is known of her. She is at Milan, if she isstill in this world. But you----"

"And Agnes, is she living?"

"Perhaps she is; but who do you think can tell? she is not here.But----"

"Where is she?"

"She has gone to Valsassina, among her relatives at Pasturo; for theysay that down there the pestilence has not made such ravages as it hashere. But you, I say----"

"I am glad of that. And Father Christopher?"

"He has been gone this long time. But you----"

"I heard that,--but has he not returned?"

"Oh no, we have heard nothing of him. But you----"

"I am sorry for it."

"But you, I say, what do you do here? For the love of Heaven, have youforgotten that little circumstance of the order for your apprehension?"

"What matters it? people have other things to think of now. I came hereto see about my own affairs."

"There is nothing to see about; there is no one here now. It is theheight of rashness in you to venture here, with this little difficultyimpending. Listen to an old man who has more prudence than yourself, andwho speaks to you from the love he bears you. Depart at once, before anyone sees you, return whence you came. Do you think the air of this placegood for you? Know you not that they have been here on the search foryou?"

"I know it too well, the rascals."

"But then----"

"But, I tell you, they think no more about it. And _he_, does _he_ yetlive? is _he_ here?"

"I tell you there is no one here; I tell you to think no more of the

affairs of this place; I tell you that----"

"I ask you if _he_ is here;"

"Oh, just Heaven! Speak in another manner. Is it possible you stillretain so much warmth, after all that has happened?"

"Is _he_ here, or is _he_ not?"

"He is not. But the plague, my son, the plague keeps every one fromtravelling at present."

"If the pestilence was all that we need fear--I speak for myself, I havehad it, and I fear it not."

"You had better render thanks to Heaven. And----"

"I do, from the bottom of my heart."

"And not go in search of other evils, I say. Listen to my advice."

"You have had it also, sir, if I am not mistaken."

"That I have, truly! most terrible it was! it is by a miracle I am here;you see how it has left me. I have need of repose to restore mystrength; I was beginning to feel a little better. In the name ofHeaven, what do you do here? Go away, I beseech you."

"You always return to your _go away_. If I ought to go away, I would nothave come. You keep saying, _What do you come for? what do you comefor?_ Sir, I am come home."

"Home!"

"Tell me, have there been many deaths here?"

"Many!" cried Don Abbondio; and beginning with Perpetua, he gave a longlist of individuals, and even whole families. Renzo expected, it istrue, a similar recital; but hearing the names of so many acquaintances,friends, and relations, he was absorbed by his affliction, and couldonly exclaim, from time to time, "Misery! misery! misery!"

"And it is not yet over," pursued Don Abbondio. "If those who remain donot listen to reason, and calm the heat of their brains, it will be theend of the world."

"Do not concern yourself; I do not intend to remain here."

"Heaven be praised! you talk reason at last. Go at once----"

"Do not trouble yourself about it; the affair belongs to me. I think Ihave arrived at years of discretion. I hope you will tell no one thatyou have seen me. You are a priest, and I am one of your flock; you willnot betray me?"

"I understand," said Don Abbondio, angrily, "I understand. You wouldruin yourself, and me with you. What you have suffered, what I have

suffered, is not sufficient. I understand, I understand." And continuingto mutter between his teeth, he proceeded on his way.

Renzo, afflicted and disappointed, reflected where he should seekanother asylum. In the catalogue of deaths given to him by Don Abbondio,there was a family which had all been carried off by the pestilence,with the exception of a young man nearly of his own age, who had beenhis companion from infancy. The house was a short distance off, a littlebeyond the village; he bent his steps thither, to seek the hospitalitywhich it might afford him. On his way he passed his own vineyard. Thevines were cut, the wood carried off. Weeds of various kinds and mostluxuriant growth, principally of the parasitical order, covered theplace, displaying the most brilliant flowers above the loftiest branchesof the vines, and obstructing the progress of the miserable owner. Thegarden beyond presented a similar scene of varied and luxuriantwildness. The house, that had not escaped the visitation of thelansquenets, was deformed with filth, dust, and cobwebs. Poor Renzoturned away with imbittered feelings, and moved slowly onwards to hisfriend's. It was evening. He found him seated before the door, on asmall bench, his arms crossed on his breast, with the air of a manstupified by distress, and suffering from solitude. At the sound ofsteps he turned, and the twilight and the foliage not permitting him todistinguish objects distinctly, he said, "Are there not others besidesme? Did I not do enough yesterday? Leave me in quiet; it will be an actof charity."

Renzo, not knowing what this meant, called him by name.

"Renzo?" replied he.

"It is indeed," said Renzo, and they ran towards each other.

"Is it you indeed?" said his friend: "oh, how happy I am to see you! whowould have thought it? I took you for one of those persons who tormentme daily to help to bury the dead. Know you that I am left alone? alone!alone as a hermit!"

"I know it but too well," said Renzo. They entered the cottage together,each making numerous enquiries of the other. His friend began to preparethe table for supper; he went out, and returned in a few moments with apitcher of milk, a little salt meat, and some fruit. They seatedthemselves at table, at which the polenta was not forgotten, mutuallycongratulating each other on their interview. An absence of two years,and the circumstances under which they met, revived and added new vigourto their former friendship.

No one, however, could supply the place of Agnes to Renzo, not only onaccount of the particular affection she bore him, but she alonepossessed the key to the solution of all his difficulties. He hesitatedawhile whether he had not best go in search of her, as she was not veryfar off; but recollecting that he knew nothing of the fate of Lucy, headhered to his first intention of gaining all the information he couldconcerning her, and carrying the result to her mother. He learnt fromhis friend, however, many things of which he was ignorant, others wereexplained which he only knew by halves, with regard to the adventures ofLucy, and the persecutions she had undergone. He was also informed thatDon Roderick had left the village, and had not returned. Renzo learnt,

moreover, to pronounce the name of Don Ferrante properly; Agnes, it istrue, had caused it to be written to him, but Heaven knows how it waswritten; and the Bergamascan interpreter had given it so strange asound, that if he had not received some instruction from his friend,probably no one in Milan would have guessed whom he meant, although thiswas the only clue he had to guide him to Lucy. As far as the law was inquestion his mind was set at rest. The signor Podestà was dead, and mostof the officers; the others were removed, or had other matters toopressing to occupy their attention. He related, in his turn, his ownadventures to his friend, receiving in exchange an account of thepassage of the army, the pestilence, the poisoners, and the prodigies."Dreadful as are our afflictions," said he, as he led him for the nightto a little chamber which the epidemic had deprived of its inhabitants,"there is a mournful consolation in speaking of them to our friends."

At the break of day they both arose, and Renzo prepared to depart. "Ifall goes well," said he, "if I find her living--if--I will return. Iwill go to Pasturo and carry the joyful news to poor Agnes, andthen--but if, by a misfortune, which may God avert--then, I know notwhat I shall do, nor where I shall go; but you will never see me hereagain."

As he stood on the threshold of the door, about to resume his journey,he contemplated for a moment, with a mixture of tenderness and anguish,his village, which he had not beheld for so long a time. His friendaccompanied him a short distance on his road, and bade him farewell,prognosticating a happy return, and many days of prosperity andenjoyment.

Renzo travelled leisurely, because there was ample time for him toarrive within a short distance of Milan, so as to enter it on themorrow. His journey was without accident, except a repetition of thesame wretched scenes that the roads at that time presented. As he haddone the day before, he stopped in a grove to make a slight repast,which the generosity of his friend had bestowed on him. Passing throughMonza, he saw loaves of bread displayed in the window of a shop; hebought two of them, but the shopkeeper called to him not to enter;stretching out a shovel, on which was a small bowl of vinegar and water,he told him to throw the money into it; then with a pair of tongs hereached the bread to him, which Renzo put in his pocket.

Towards evening he passed through Greco, and quitting the high road,went into the fields in search of some small house where he might passthe night, as he did not wish to stop at an inn. He found a bettershelter than he anticipated; perceiving an opening in a hedge whichsurrounded the yard of a dairy, he entered it boldly. There was no onewithin: in one corner of it was a barn full of hay, and against the doorof it a ladder placed. After looking around, Renzo ascended the ladder,settled himself for the night, and slept profoundly until the break ofday. When he awoke, he descended the ladder very cautiously, andproceeded on his way, taking the dome of the cathedral for his polarstar. He soon arrived before the walls of Milan near the eastern gate.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

Renzo had heard vague mention made of severe orders, forbidding theentrance of strangers into Milan, without a certificate of health; butthese were easily evaded, for Milan had reached a point when suchprohibition was useless, even if it could have been put into execution.Whoever ventured there, might rather appear careless of his own life,than dangerous to that of others.

With this conviction, Renzo's design was to attempt a passage at thefirst gate, and in case of difficulty to wander on the outside of thewalls until he should find one easy of access. It would be difficult tosay how many gates he thought Milan had.

When he arrived before the ramparts, he looked around him; there was noindication of living being, except on a point of the platform, a thickcloud of dense smoke arising; this was occasioned by clothing, beds, andinfected furniture, which were committed to the flames; every wherealong the ramparts appeared the traces of these melancholyconflagrations.

The weather was close, the air heavy, the sky covered by a thick cloud,or fog, which excluded the sun, without promising rain. The surroundingcountry was neglected and sterile; all verdure extinct, and not a dropof dew on the dry and withering leaves. The depth, solitude, andsilence, so near a large city, increased the gloom of Renzo's thoughts;he proceeded, without being aware of it, to the gate _Nuova_, which hadbeen hid from his view by a bastion, behind which it was then concealed.A noise of bells, sounding at intervals, mingled with the voices of men,saluted his ear; turning an angle of the bastion, he saw before the gatea sentry-box, and a sentinel leaning on his musket, with a wearied andcareless air. Exactly before the opening was a sad obstacle, ahand-barrow, upon which two _monatti_ were extending an unfortunate man,to carry him off; it was the chief of the toll-gatherers, who had justbeen attacked by the pestilence. Renzo awaited the departure of theconvoy, and no one appearing to close the gate, he passed forwardsquickly; the sentinel cried out "Holla!" Renzo stopping, showed him ahalf ducat, which he drew from his pocket; whether he had had thepestilence, or that he feared it less than he loved ducats, he signed toRenzo to throw it to him; seeing it at his feet, he cried, "Go in,quickly," a permission of which Renzo readily availed himself. He hadhardly advanced forty paces when a toll-collector called to him to stop.He pretended not to hear, and passed on. The call was repeated, but in atone more of anger than of resolution to be obeyed--and this beingequally unheeded, the collector shrugged his shoulders and turned backto his room.

Renzo proceeded through the long street opposite the gate which leads tothe canal _Naviglio_, and had advanced some distance into the citywithout encountering a single individual; at last he saw a man comingtowards him, from whom he hoped he might gain some information; he movedtowards him, but the man showed signs of alarm at his approach. Renzo,when he was at a little distance, took off his hat, like a politemountaineer as he was, but the man drew back, and raising a knotty club,armed with a spike, he cried, "Off! off! off!" "Oh! oh!" cried Renzo; heput on his hat, and having no desire for a greeting of this fashion, heturned his back on the discourteous passenger and went on his way.

The citizen retired in an opposite direction, shuddering and lookingback in alarm: when he reached home he related how a poisoner had methim with humble and polite manners, but with the air of an infamousimpostor, and with a phial of poison or the box of powder (he did notknow exactly which) in the lining of his hat, to poison him, if he hadnot kept him at a distance. "It was unlucky," said he, "that we were inso private a street; if it had been in the midst of Milan, I would havecalled the people, and he would have been seized: but alone, it wasenough to have saved myself--but who knows what destruction he may notalready have effected in the city:"--and years after, when thepoisoners were talked of, the poor man maintained the truth of the fact,as "he had had ocular proof."

Renzo was far from suspecting the danger he had escaped; and, reflectingon this reception, he was more angry than fearful. "This is a badbeginning," thought he; "my star always seems unpropitious when I enterMilan. To enter is easy enough, but, once here, misfortunes thicken.However--by the help of God--if I find--if I succeed in finding--allwill be well."

The streets were silent and deserted; no human being could he see; asingle disfigured corpse met his eye in the channel between the streetand the houses. Suddenly he heard a cry, which appeared addressed tohim; and he perceived, not far off, on the balcony of a house, a woman,surrounded by a group of children, making a sign to him to approach. Ashe did so, "O good young man!" said she, "do me the kindness to go tothe commissary, and tell him that we are forgotten here. They havenailed up the house as suspected, because my poor husband is dead; andsince yesterday morning no one has brought us any thing to eat, andthese poor innocents are dying of hunger."

"Of hunger!" cried Renzo. "Here, here," said he, drawing the two loavesfrom his pocket. "Lower something in which I may put them."

"God reward you! wait a moment," said the woman, as she went in searchof a basket and cord to suspend it.

"As to the commissary, my good woman," said he, putting the loaves inthe basket, "I cannot serve you, because, to tell truth, I am a strangerin Milan, and know nothing of the place. However, if I meet any one alittle humane and tractable, to whom I can speak, I will tell him."

The woman begged him to do so, and gave him the name of the street inwhich she lived.

"You can also render me a service, without its costing you any thing,"said Renzo. "Can you tell me where there is a nobleman's house in Milan,named ***?"

"I know there is a house of that name, but I do not know where it is.Further on in the city you will probably find some one to direct you.And remember to speak of us."

"Do not doubt me," said Renzo, as he passed on.

As he advanced, he heard increasing a sound that had already attracted

his attention, whilst stopping to converse with the poor woman; a soundof wheels and horses' feet, with the noise of little bells, andoccasionally the cracking of whips and loud cries.

As he reached the square of San Marco, the first objects he saw were twobeams erected, with a cord and pulleys. He recognised the horribleinstrument of torture! These were placed on all the squares and wideststreets, so that the deputies of each quarter of the city, furnishedwith the most arbitrary power, could subject to them whoever quitted acondemned house, or neglected the ordinances, or by any other actappeared to merit the punishment; it was one of those extreme andinefficacious remedies, which, at this epoch, were so absurdlyauthorised. Now, whilst Renzo was gazing at this machine, he heard thesounds increasing, and beheld a man appear, ringing a little bell; itwas an _apparitore_, and behind him came two horses, who advanced withdifficulty, dragging a car loaded with dead; after this car cameanother, and another, and another; _monatti_ walked by the side of thehorses, urging them on with their whips and with oaths. The bodies werefor the most part naked; some were half covered with rags, and heapedone upon another; at each jolt of the wretched vehicles, heads were seenhanging over, the long tresses of women were displayed, arms wereloosened and striking against the wheels, thrilling the soul of thespectator with indescribable horror!

The youth stopped at a corner of the square to pray for the unknowndead. A frightful thought passed over his mind. "There, perhaps, there,with them--O God! avert this misfortune! let me not think of it!"

The funeral convoy having passed on, he crossed the square, and reachedthe Borgo Nuovo by the bridge Marcellino. He perceived a priest standingbefore a half-open door, in an attitude of attention, as if he wereconfessing some one. "Here," said he, "is my man. If a priest, and inthe discharge of his duty, has no benevolence, there is none left in theworld who has." When he was at a few paces distance from him, he tookoff his hat, and made a sign that he wished to speak with him, keeping,however, at a discreet distance, so as not to alarm the good manunnecessarily. Renzo having made his request, was directed to the hotel."May God watch over you now and for ever!" said Renzo, "and," added he,"I would ask another favour." And he mentioned the poor forgotten woman.The worthy man thanked him for affording him the opportunity to bestowhelp where it was so greatly needed, and bade him farewell.

Renzo found it difficult enough to recollect the various turningspointed out by the priest, disturbed as his mind was by apprehensionsfor the issue of his enquiries. An end was about to be put to his doubtsand fears; he was to be told, "she is living," or, "she is dead!" Thisidea took such powerful possession of his mind, that at this moment, hewould rather have remained in his former ignorance, and have been at thecommencement of the journey, to the end of which he so nearlyapproached. He gathered courage, however. "Ah!" cried he, "if I play thechild now, how will it end!" Plunging therefore into the heart of thecity, he soon reached one of its most desolated quarters, that which iscalled the _Carrobio di Porta Nuova_. The fury of the contagion here,and the infection from the scattered bodies, had been so great, thatthose who had survived had been obliged to fly: so that, whilst thepassenger was struck with the aspect of solitude and death, his senseswere painfully affected by the traces of recent life. Renzo hastened on,

hoping to find an improvement in the scene, before he should arrive atthe end of his journey. In fact, he soon reached what might still becalled the city of the living, but, alas! what living! Every door wasclosed from distrust and terror, except such as had been left open bythe flight of the inhabitants, or by the _monatti_; some were nailed onthe outside, because there were within people dead, or dying of thepestilence; others were marked with a cross, for the purpose ofinforming the _monatti_ that their services were required, and much ofthis was done more by chance than otherwise; as a commissary of healthhappened to be in one spot rather than in another, and chose to enforcethe regulations. On every side were seen infected rags and bandages,clothes and sheets, which had been thrown from the windows; dead bodieswhich had been left in the streets until a car should pass to take themup, or which had fallen from the cars themselves, or been thrown fromthe houses; so much bad the long duration and the violence of the pestbrutalised men's minds, and subdued every spark of human feeling orsympathy. The customary sounds of human occupation or pleasure hadceased; and this silence of death was interrupted only by the funeralcars, the lamentations of the sick, the shrieks of the frantic, or thevociferations of the _monatti_.

At the break of day, at noon, and at night, a bell of the cathedral gavethe signal for reciting certain prayers, which had been ordered by thearchbishop, and this was followed by the bells of the other churches.Then persons were seen at the windows, and a confused blending of voicesand groans was heard, which inspired a sorrow, not however unmixed withconsolation. It is probable that at this time not less than two thirdsof the inhabitants had died, and of the remainder many were sick or hadleft the city. Every one you met exhibited signs of the dreadfulcalamity. The usual dress was changed of every order of persons. Thecloak of the gentleman, the robe of the priest, the cowl of the monk, inshort, every loose appendage of dress that might occasion contact, wascarefully dismissed; every thing was as close on the person as possible.Men's beards and hair were alike neglected, from fear of treachery onthe part of the barbers. Every man walked with a stick, or even apistol, to prevent the approach of others. Equal care was shown inkeeping the middle of the street to avoid what might be thrown fromwindows, and in avoiding the noxious matters in the road. But if theaspect of the uninfected was appalling, how shall we describe thecondition of the wretched sick in the street, tottering or falling torise no more--beggars, children, women.

Renzo had travelled far on his way, through the midst of thisdesolation, when he heard a confused noise, in which was distinguishablethe horrible and accustomed tinkling of bells.

At the entrance of one of the most spacious streets, he perceived fourcars standing; _monatti_ were seen entering houses, coming forth withburthens on their shoulders, and laying them on the cars; some wereclothed in their red dress, others without any distinctive mark, but thegreater number with a mark, more revolting still than their customarydress,--plumes of various colours, which they wore with an air oftriumph in the midst of the public mourning, and whilst people from thedifferent windows around were calling to them to remove the dead. Renzoavoided, as much as possible, the view of the horrid spectacle; but hisattention was soon attracted by an object of singular interest; afemale, whose aspect won the regards of every beholder, came out of one

of the houses, and approached the cars. In her features was seen beauty,veiled and clouded, but not destroyed, by the mortal debility whichseemed to oppress her; the soft and majestic beauty which shines in theLombard blood. Her step was feeble, but decided; she wept not, althoughthere were traces of tears on her countenance. There was a tranquillityand profundity in her grief, which absorbed all her powers. But it wasnot _her_ appearance alone which excited compassion in hearts nearlyclosed to every human feeling; she held in her arms a young girl aboutnine years of age, dead, but dressed with careful precision; her hairdivided smoothly on her pale forehead, and clothed in a robe of thepurest white. She was not lying, but was seated, on the arm of the lady,her head leaning on her shoulder; you would have thought she breathed,if a little white hand had not hung down with inanimate weight, and herhead reposed on the shoulder of her mother, with an abandonment moredecided than that of sleep. Of her mother! it was indeed her mother! Ifthe resemblance of their features had not told it, you would have knownit by the expression of that fair and lovely countenance!

A hideous _monatto_ approached the lady, and with unusual respectoffered to relieve her of her burthen. "No," said she, with anappearance neither of anger nor disgust, "do not touch her yet; it is Iwho must place her on the car. Take this," and she dropped a purse intothe hands of the _monatto_; "promise me not to touch a hair of her head,nor to let others do it, and bury her thus."

The _monatto_ placed his hand on his heart, and respectfully prepared aplace on the car for the infant dead. The lady, after having kissed herforehead, placed her on it, as carefully as if it were a couch, spreadover her a white cloth, and took a last look; "Farewell! Cecilia! restin peace! To-night we will come to you, and then we shall be separatedno more!" Turning again to the _monatto_, "As you pass to-night," saidshe, "you will come for me; and not for me only!"

She returned into the house, and a moment after appeared at a window,holding in her arms another cherished child, who was still living, butwith the stamp of death on her countenance. She contemplated theunworthy obsequies of Cecilia, until the car disappeared from her eyes,and then left the window with her mournful burthen. And what remainedfor them, but to die together, as the flower which proudly lifts itshead, falls with the bud, under the desolating scythe which levels everyherb of the field.

"O God!" cried Renzo, "save her! protect her! her and this innocentcreature! they have suffered enough! they have suffered enough!"

He then proceeded on his way, filled with emotions of distress and pity.Another convoy of wretched victims encountered him at a cross street ontheir way to the lazaretto. Some were imploring to be allowed to die ontheir own beds in peace; some moving on with imbecile apathy, women asusual with their little ones, and even some of these supported andencouraged with manly devotion by their brothers a little older thanthemselves, and whom alone the plague had for a time spared for thisaffecting office. When the miserable crowd had nearly passed, headdressed a commissary whose aspect was a little less savage than therest; and enquired of him the street and the house of Don Ferrante. Hereplied, "The first street to the right, the last hotel to the left."

The young man hastened thither, with new and deeper trouble at hisheart. Easily distinguishing the house, he approached the door, raisedhis hand to the knocker, and held it suspended awhile, before he couldsummon resolution to knock.

At the sound, a window was half opened, and a female appeared at it,looking towards the door with a countenance which appeared to ask, "Isit _monatti_? thieves? or poisoners?"

"Signora," said Renzo, but in a tremulous voice, "is there not here inservice a young villager of the name of Lucy?"

"She is no longer here; begone," replied the woman, about to close thewindow.

"A moment, I beseech you. She is no longer here! Where is she?"

"At the lazaretto."

"A moment, for the love of Heaven! With the pestilence?"

"Yes. It is something very uncommon, is it not? Begone then."

"Wait an instant. Was she very ill? Is it long since?"

But this time the window was closed entirely.

"Oh! signora, signora! one word, for charity! Alas! alas! one word!" Buthe might as well have talked to the wind.

Afflicted by this intelligence, and vexed with the rude treatment of thewoman, Renzo seized the knocker again, and raised it for the purpose ofstriking. In his distress, he turned to look at the neighbouring houses,with the hope of seeing some one, who would give him more satisfactoryinformation. But the only person he discovered, was a woman, abouttwenty paces off, who, with an appearance of terror, anger, andimpatience, was making signs to some one to approach; and this she did,as if not wishing to attract Renzo's notice. Perceiving him looking ather, she shuddered with horror.

"What the devil!" said Renzo, threatening her with his fist, but she,having lost the hope of his being seized unexpectedly, cried aloud, "Apoisoner! catch him! catch him! stop the poisoner!"

"Who? I! old sorceress! be silent," cried Renzo, as he approached her inorder to compel her to be so. But he soon perceived that it was best tothink of himself, as the cry of the woman had gathered people from everyquarter; not in so great numbers as would have been seen three monthsbefore under similar circumstances, but still many more than one mancould resist. At this moment, the window was again opened, and the samediscourteous woman appeared at it, crying, "Seize him, seize him; hemust be one of the rascals who wander about to poison the doors ofpeople."

Renzo determined in an instant that it was better to fly than to stop tojustify himself. Rapidly casting his eyes around to see on which sidethere were the fewest people, and fighting his way through those that

opposed him, he soon freed himself from their clutches.

The street was deserted before him; but behind him the terrible crystill resounded, "Seize him! stop him! a poisoner!" It gained on him,steps were close at his heels. His anger became rage; his agony,despair; drawing his knife from his pocket, and brandishing it in theair, he turned, crying aloud, "Let him who dares come here, the rascal,and I will poison him indeed with this."

But he saw, with astonishment and pleasure, that his persecutors hadalready stopped, as if some obstacle opposed their path; and were makingfrantic gestures to persons beyond him. Turning again, he beheld a carapproaching, and even a file of cars with their usual accompaniments.Beyond them was another little band of people prepared to seize thepoisoner, but prevented by the same obstacle. Seeing himself thusbetween two fires, it occurred to Renzo, that _that_ which was an objectof terror to these people, might be to him a source of safety.Reflecting that this was not a moment for fastidious scruples, headvanced towards the cars, passed the first, and perceiving in thesecond a space large enough to receive him, threw himself into it.

"Bravo! bravo!" cried the _monatti_ with one shout. Some of them werefollowing the convoy on foot, others were seated on the cars, others onthe dead bodies, drinking from an enormous flagon, which they passedaround. "Bravo! that was well done!"

"You have placed yourself under the protection of the _monatti_; you areas safe as if you were in a church," said one, who was seated on the carinto which Renzo had thrown himself.

The enemy was obliged to retreat, crying, however, "Seize him! seizehim! he is a poisoner!"

"Let me silence them!" said the _monatto_; and drawing from one of thedead bodies a dirty rag, he tied it up in a bundle, and made a gestureas if intending to throw it among them, crying, "Here, rascals!" At thesight, all fled away in horror!

A howl of triumph arose from the _monatti_.

"Ah! ah! you see we can protect honest people," said the _monatto_ toRenzo, "one of us is worth a hundred of those cowards."

"I owe my life to you," said Renzo, "and I thank you sincerely."

"'Tis a trifle, a trifle; you deserve it; 'tis plain to be seen you're abrave fellow; you do well to poison this rabble; extirpate the fools,who, as a reward for the life we lead, say, that the plague once over,they will hang us all. They must all be finished, before the plagueceases; the _monatti_ alone must remain to sing for victory, and tofeast in Milan."

"Life to the pestilence, and death to the rabble!" cried another,putting the flagon to his mouth, from which he drank freely, and thenoffered it to Renzo, saying, "Drink to our health."

"I wish it to you all," said Renzo, "but I am not thirsty, and do not

want to drink now."

"You have been terribly frightened, it seems," said the _monatto_; "youappear to be a harmless sort of a person; you should have another facethan that for a poisoner."

"Give me a drop," said a _monatto_, who walked by the side of the cars;"I would drink to the health of the nobleman, who is here in such goodcompany--in yonder carriage!" And with a malignant laugh he pointed tothe car in which poor Renzo was seated. Then brutally composing hisfeatures to an expression of gravity, he bowed profoundly, saying, "Willyou permit, my dear master, a poor devil of a _monatto_ to taste alittle wine from your cellar? Do now, because we lead rough lives, andmoreover, we are doing you the favour to take you a ride into thecountry. And besides, you are not accustomed to wine, and it might harmyour lordship; but the poor _monatti_ have good stomachs."

His companions laughed loudly; he took the flagon, and before he drank,turned again to Renzo, and with an air of insulting compassion said,"The devil with whom you have made a compact, must be very young; if wehad not saved you, you would have been none the better for hisassistance."

His companions laughed louder than before, and he applied the flagon tohis lips.

"Leave some for us! some for us!" cried those from the forward car.After having taken as much as he wanted, he returned the flagon to hiscompanions, who passed it on; the last of the company having emptied it,threw it on the pavement, crying, "Long live the pestilence!" Then theycommenced singing a lewd song, in which they were accompanied by all thevoices of the horrible choir. This infernal music, blended with thetingling of the bells, the noise of the wheels, and of the horses' feet,resounded in the empty silence of the streets, echoed through thehouses, wringing the hearts of the very few who still inhabited them!

But the danger of the preceding moment had rendered more than tolerableto Renzo, the company of these wretches and the dead they were about tointer; and even this music was almost agreeable to his ears, as itrelieved him from the embarrassment of such conversation. He returnedthanks to Providence for having enabled him to escape from his peril,without receiving or doing an injury; and he prayed God to help him nowto deliver himself from his liberators. He kept on the watch to seizethe first opportunity of quietly quitting the car, without exciting theopposition of his protectors.

At last they reached the lazaretto. At the appearance of a commissary,one of the two _monatti_ who were on the car with Renzo jumped to theground, in order to speak with him: Renzo hastily quitting the ear, saidto the other, "I thank you for your kindness; God reward you."

"Go, go, poor poisoner," replied he, "it will not be you who willdestroy Milan!"

Fortunately no one heard him. Renzo hastened onwards by the wall,crossed the bridge, passed the convent of the capuchins, and thenperceived the angle of the lazaretto. In front of the inclosure a

horrible scene presented itself to his view. Arrived in front of thelazaretto, throngs of sick were pressing into the avenues which led tothe building; some were seated or lying in the ditch, which bordered theroad on either side, their strength not having sufficed to enable themto reach their asylum, or who, having quitted it in desperation, weretoo weak to go further; others wandered by themselves, stupified, andinsensible to their condition; one was quite animated, relating hisimaginations to a miserable companion, who was stretched on the ground,oppressed by suffering; another was furious from despair; a third, morehorrible still! was singing, in a voice above all the rest, and withheart-rending hilarity, one of the popular songs of love, gay andplayful, which the Milanese call _villanelle_.

Already weary, and confounded at the view of so much misery concentratedwithin so small a space, our poor Renzo reached the gate of thelazaretto. He crossed the threshold, and stood for a moment motionlessunder the portico.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

The reader may imagine the lazaretto, peopled with sixteen thousandpersons infected with the plague: the vast enclosure was encumbered withcabins, tents, cars, and human beings. Two long ranges of porticoes, tothe right and left, were crowded with the dying or the dead, extendedupon straw; and from the immense receptacle of woe, was heard a deepmurmur, similar to the distant voice of the waves, agitated by atempest.

Renzo went forward from hut to hut, carefully examining everycountenance he could discern within--whether broken down by suffering,distorted by spasm, or fixed in death. Hitherto he met none but men, andjudged, therefore, that the women were distributed in some other partof the inclosure. The state of the atmosphere seemed to add to thehorror of the scene: a dense and dark fog involved all things. The discof the sun, as if seen through a veil, shed a feeble light in its ownpart of the sky, but darted down a heavy deathlike blast of heat: aconfused murmuring of distant thunder might be heard. Not a leaf moved,not a bird was seen--save the swallow only, which descended to theplain, and, alarmed at the dismal sounds around, remounted the air, anddisappeared. Nature seemed at war with human existence--hundreds seemedto grow worse--the last struggle more afflictive--and no hour ofbitterness was comparable to that.

Renzo had, in his search, witnessed, as he thought, every variety ofhuman suffering. But a new sound caught his ear--a compound ofchildren's crying and goats' bleating: looking through an opening of theboards of a hut, he saw children, infants, lying upon sheets or quiltsupon the floor, and nurses attending them; but the most singular part ofthe spectacle, was a number of she-goats supplying the maternalfunctions, and with all the appearance of conscious sympathy hastening,at the cries of the helpless little ones, to afford them the requisitenutrition. The women were aiding these efficient coadjutors, inrendering their supplies available to the poor bereft babies. Whilst

observing this wretched scene, an old capuchin entered with two infants,just taken from their lifeless mother, to seek among the flock for oneto supply her place. Quitting this spot, and looking about on everyside, a sudden apparition struck his sight, and set his thoughts incommotion. He saw at some distance, among the tents, a capuchin, whom heinstantly recognised to be Father Christopher!

The history of the good friar, from the moment in which we lost sight ofhim until this meeting, may be related in few words. He had not stirredfrom Rimini, and he would not now have thought of doing so if the plaguebreaking out at Milan had not afforded him the opportunity, so longdesired, of sacrificing his life for the benefit of others. He demanded,as a favour, permission to go and assist those who were infected withthe disease. The count, he of the secret council, was dead; andmoreover, at this time, there was a greater want of guardians to thesick, than of politicians: his request was readily granted. He had nowbeen in the lazaretto nearly three months.

But the joy of Renzo at seeing the good father was not unalloyed. It washe indeed; but, alas! how changed! how wan! Exhausted nature appeared tobe sustained for a while by the mind, that had acquired new vigour fromthe perpetual demand on its sympathies and activity.

"Oh, Father Christopher!" said Renzo, when he was near enough to speakto him.

"You here!" said the friar, rising.

"How are you, my father, how are you?"

"Better than these unfortunate beings that you see," replied the friar.His voice was feeble--hollow and changed as his person. His eye alone"had not lost its original brightness"--benevolence and charity appearedto have imparted to it a lustre superior to that which bodily weaknesswas gradually extinguishing.

"But you," pursued he, "why are you here? Why do you thus come to bravethe pestilence?"

"I have had it, thank Heaven! I come----in search of----Lucy."

"Lucy! Is Lucy here?"

"Yes. At least I hope so."

"Is she thy wife?"

"My dear father! alas! no, she is not my wife. Do you know nothing,then, of what has happened?"

"No, my son. Since God removed me from you, I have heard nothing. Butnow that he sends you to me, I wish much to know. And your banishment?"

"You know, then, what they did to me?"

"But you, what did _you_ do?"

"My father, if I were to say I was prudent on that day at Milan, Ishould tell a falsehood; but I committed no bad action wilfully."

"I believe you; I have always thought so."

"Now then I will tell you all."

"Wait a moment."

He approached a cabin, and called "_Father Victor_."

In a few moments a young capuchin appeared. "Do me the favour, FatherVictor," said he, "to take my place in watching over our poor patientsfor a little while. If, however, any should particularly ask for me, beso good as to call me."

The young friar complied, and Father Christopher, turning to Renzo, "Letus enter here," said he. "But," added he, "you appear much exhausted,you have need of food."

"It is true. Now that you make me think of it, I have not tasted anything to-day."

"Wait, then, a moment." He soon brought Renzo a bowl of broth, from alarge kettle, the common property of the establishment, and making himsit down on his bed, the only seat his cabin afforded, and placing somewine on a little table by his side, he seated himself next him. "Nowtell me about my poor child," said he, "and be in haste, for time isprecious, and I have much to do, as you perceive."

Renzo related the history of Lucy; that she had been sheltered in theconvent of Monza, and carried off from her asylum. At the idea of suchtreatment and peril, and at the thought, too, that it was he who hadunwittingly exposed her to it, the good friar was breathless withattention; but he recovered his tranquillity when he heard of hermiraculous deliverance, her restoration to her mother, and her havingbeen placed under the protection of Donna Prassede.

Renzo then briefly related his journey to Milan, his flight, and hisreturn home; that he had not found Agnes there; and at Milan had learnedthat Lucy was in the lazaretto. "And I am here," concluded he, "I amhere in search of her; to see if she yet lives, and if----she stillthinks of me----because----sometimes----"

"But what direction did they give you? Did they tell you where she wasplaced when she came here?"

"I know nothing, dear father, nothing; only that she is here, if shestill lives, which may God grant!"

"Oh, poor child! But what have you done here until now?"

"I have searched, and searched, but have seen hardly any but men. Ithink the females must be in another part by themselves; you can tell meif this is the case?"

"Know you not that it is forbidden to men to enter there unless their

duty calls them?"

"Oh, well! what can happen to me if I should attempt?"

"The law is a good one, my dear son; and if our weight of afflictiondoes not permit us to enforce it, is that a reason why an honest manshould infringe it?"

"But, Father Christopher, Lucy should have been my wife; you know how wehave been separated; it is twenty months since I have suffered, andtaken my misfortunes patiently; I have come here, risking every thing tobehold her, and now----"

"I know not what to say," resumed the friar; "you are, no doubt, guidedby a praiseworthy motive; would to God that all those who have freeaccess to these places conducted themselves as well as I am sure youwill. God, who certainly blesses thy perseverance of affection, thyfidelity in desiring and seeking her whom he has given thee, God, who ismore rigorous than man, but also more indulgent, will not regard whatmay be irregular in this enquiry for one so dear."

So saying, he arose, and Renzo followed him. While listening to him, hehad been confirmed in his resolution not to acquaint the father withLucy's vow. "If he learns that," thought he, "he will certainly raisenew difficulties. Either I shall find her, and we can then disclose,or----and then----what use would it be?"

After having conducted him to the opening of the cabin, towards thenorth, "From yonder little temple," said he, "rising above the miserabletents, Father Felix is about to lead in procession the small remnant whoare convalescent, to another station, to finish their quarantine. Avoidnotice, but watch them as they pass. If she is not of the number, thisside," added he, pointing to the edifice before them, "this side of thebuilding and a part of the field before it are assigned to the women.You will perceive a railing which divides that quarter from this, but sobroken, in many places, that you can easily pass through. Once there, ifyou do nothing to offend, probably no one will speak to you. If,however, there is any difficulty, say that Father Christopher knows you,and will answer for you. Seek her, then, seek her with confidence--andwith resignation; for remember, it is an unusual expectation, a personalive within the walls of the lazaretto! Go, then, and be prepared forwhatever result----"

"Yes, I understand!" said Renzo, a dark cloud overshadowing hiscountenance; "I understand, I will seek in every place, from one end ofthe lazaretto to the other----And if I do not find her!"

"If you do not find her?" repeated the father, in a serious andadmonitory tone.

But Renzo, giving vent to the wrath which had been for some time pent upin his bosom, pursued, "If I do not find her, I will find _another_person. Either at Milan, or in his abominable palace, or at the end ofthe world, or in the house of the devil, I will find the villain whoseparated us; but for whom Lucy would have been mine twenty months ago;and if we had been destined to die, at least we should have diedtogether. If he still lives, I will find him----"

"Renzo!" said the friar, seizing him by the arm, and looking at himseverely.

"And if I find him," continued Renzo, entirely blinded by rage, "if thepestilence has not already done justice--the time is past when apoltroon, surrounded by bravoes, can reduce men to despair, and laugh atthem! the time is come when men meet face to face, and I will do myselfjustice."

"Unhappy youth!" cried Father Christopher, with a voice which hadsuddenly become strong and sonorous, his head raised, and eyes dartingforth more than their wonted fire; "unhappy youth! look around you!Behold who punishes and who judges; who punishes and pardons! But you,feeble worm, you would do yourself justice! Do you know what justice is?Unhappy youth! begone! I hoped----yes, I hoped that before I died, Godwould afford me the consolation to learn that my poor Lucy still lived;to see her, perhaps, and to hear her promise that she would send aprayer to yonder grave where I shall rest. Begone, you have taken awaymy hope. God has not left her on the earth for thee, and you certainlyhave not the audacity to believe yourself worthy that God should thinkof consoling you. Go, I have no time to listen to you farther." And hedropped the arm of Renzo, which he had grasped, and moved towards acabin.

"Oh, my father!" said Renzo, following him with a supplicating look,"will you send me away thus?"

"How!" resumed the capuchin, but in a gentler tone, "would you dare askme to steal the time from these poor afflicted ones, who are expectingme to speak to them of the pardon of God, in order to listen to thyaccents of rage--thy projects of vengeance? I listened to you, when youasked consolation and advice, but now that you have revenge in yourheart, what do you want with me? Begone, I have listened to theforgiveness of the injured, and the repentance of the aggressor; I havewept with both; but what have I to do with thee?"

"Oh, I pardon him! I pardon him! I pardon him for ever!" said the youngman.

"Renzo," said the friar, in a calmer tone, "think of it, and tell me howoften you have pardoned him?"

He kept silence some time, and not receiving an answer, he bowed hishead, and, with a voice trembling from emotion, continued, "You know whyI wear this habit?"

Renzo hesitated.

"You know it?" repeated the old man.

"I know it."

"I likewise hated, I, who have reprimanded you for a thought, a word.The man I hated, I killed."

"Yes, but it was a noble, one of those----"

"Silence!" interrupted the friar. "If that were justification, believeyou I should not have found it in thirty years? Ah! if I could now makeyou experience the sentiment I have since had, and that I now have forthe man I hated! If _I_ could _I_!--but God can. May he do it! Hear me,Renzo. He is a better friend to you, than you are to yourself; you havethought of revenge, but He has power enough, pity enough, to prevent it;you know you have often said that he can arrest the arm of the powerful;but learn, also, that he can arrest that of the vindictive. And becauseyou are poor, because you are injured, can he not defend against you aman created in his image? Will he suffer you to do all you wish? No! buthe can cast you off for ever; he can, for this sentiment which animatesyou, embitter your whole life, since, whatever happens to you, hold forcertain, that all will be punishment until you have pardoned, pardonedfreely and for ever!"

"Yes, yes," said Renzo, with much emotion, "I feel that I have nevertruly pardoned him; I have spoken as a brute and not as a Christian; andnow, by the help of God, I pardon him from the bottom of my soul."

"And should you see him?"

"I would pray God to grant me patience, and to touch his heart."

"Do you remember that the Lord has not only told us to pardon ourenemies, but to love them? Do you remember that he loved them so as todie for them?"

"Yes, I do."

"Well, come and behold him. You have said you would find him; you shalldo so; come, and you will see against whom you preserve hatred, to whomyou desire evil, against what life you would arm yourself!"

He took the hand of Renzo, who followed him, without daring to ask aquestion. The friar led the way into one of the cabins. The first objectRenzo beheld was a sick person seated on a bed of straw, who appeared tobe convalescent. On seeing the father, he shook his head, as if to say_No_. The father bowed his with an air of sorrow and resignation. Renzo,meanwhile, gazing with uneasy curiosity around the cabin, beheld in thecorner of it a sick person lying on a feather bed, wrapped up in asheet, and covered with a cloak. Looking attentively, he recognised DonRoderick! The unfortunate man lay motionless; his eyes wide open, butwithout any cognisance of the objects around him; the stamp of death wason his face, which was covered with black spots; his lips were swollenand black: you would have thought it the face of the dead, if a violentcontraction about the mouth had not revealed a tenacity of life; hisrespiration was painful, and his livid hand, extending on the outside ofthe covering, was firmly grasping his cloak, and pressing it upon hisheart, as if conscious that _there_ was his deepest agony.

"Behold!" said the friar, in a low solemn voice; "the sentiment you holdtowards this man, who has offended you, such will God hold towards youon the great day. Bless him, and be blessed! For four days he has beenhere in this condition, without giving any sign of perception. Perhapsthe Lord is disposed to grant him an hour of repentance, but he wouldhave you pray for it; perhaps he desires that you should pray for him

with this innocent girl; perhaps he reserves this favour for thy prayeralone, for the prayer of an afflicted and resigned heart. Perhaps thesalvation of this man and thine own depend at this moment upon thyself,upon thy pity, upon thy love." He kept silence, and clasping his hands,bowed his head as in prayer, and Renzo, completely subdued, followed hisexample. Their supplications were interrupted in a short time by thestriking of a bell: they immediately arose and left the cabin.

"The procession is about to move," said the father; "go then, preparedto make a sacrifice, to praise God, whatever may be the issue of yoursearch; and whatever that may be, return to me, and we will praise himtogether."

Here they separated; the one to resume his painful duties, the other tothe little temple, which was close at hand.

CHAPTER XXXV.

Who would have told Renzo some moments before, that at the very time ofhis greatest suspense and anxiety, his heart should be divided betweenLucy and Don Roderick? And nevertheless it was so. The thought of himmingled itself with all the bright or painful images which hope or fearcalled up as he proceeded. The words the friar had uttered by that bedof pain, blended themselves with the cruel uncertainty of his soul. Hecould not utter a prayer, for the happy issue of his presentundertaking, without adding to it one for the miserable object of hisformer resentment and revenge.

He saw the Father Felix on the portico of the church, and by hisattitude comprehended that the holy man was addressing the assembledconvalescents. He placed himself where he could overlook the audience.In the midst were the women, covered with veils; Renzo gazed at themintently, but finding that, from the place where he stood, it would be avain scrutiny, he directed his attention to the father. He was touchedby his venerable figure; and listened with all the attention his ownsolicitude would allow, to the reverend speaker, who thus proceeded inhis affecting address:--

"Let us think for a moment," said he, "of the thousands who have goneforth thither," pointing to a gate behind him, leading to the buryingground of San Gregory, which was then but one mighty grave. "Let us lookat the thousands who remain here, uncertain of their destiny; let usalso look at ourselves! May the Lord be praised! praised in his justice!praised in his mercy! praised in death! praised in life! praised in thechoice he has made of us! Oh! why has he done it, my children, if not topreserve a people corrected by affliction, and animated by gratitude?That we may be deeply sensible that life is his gift, that we may valueit accordingly, and employ it in works which he will approve? That theremembrance of our sufferings may render us compassionate, and activelybenevolent to others. May those with whom we have suffered, hoped, andfeared, and among whom we leave friends and kindred, may they as we passamidst them derive edification from our deportment! May God preserve usfrom any exhibition of self-congratulation, or carnal joy, at escaping

that death against which they are still struggling! May they see usdepart, rendering thanks to Heaven for ourselves, and praying for them;that they may say, _Even beyond these walls they will remember us, theywill continue to pray for us!_ Let us begin from this moment, from thefirst step we shall take into the world, a life of charity! Let thosewho have regained their former strength, lend a fraternal arm to thefeeble; let the young sustain the old; let those who are left withoutchildren become parents to the orphan, and thus your sorrows will besoftened, and your lives will be acceptable to God!"

Here a deep murmur of sighs and sobs, which had been increasing in theassembly, was suddenly suspended, on seeing the friar place a cordaround his neck and fall on his knees. All was intense attention andprofound silence.

"For myself," said he, "and for all my companions, who have been chosento the high privilege of serving Christ in you, I humbly ask yourforgiveness if we have not worthily fulfilled so great a ministry. Ifindolence, or the waywardness of the flesh, has rendered us lessattentive to your wants, less prompt to your call than duty demanded;if unjust impatience, or culpable disgust, have caused us sometimes toappear severe and wearied in your presence; if, indeed, the miserablethought that you had need of us, has led us to be deficient in humilitytowards you; if our frailty has made us commit any action which may havegiven you pain, pardon us! May God remit also your offences, and blessyou!"

We have here related, if not the very words, at least the sense of thatwhich he uttered; but we cannot describe the accent which accompaniedthem. It was that of a man who called it a privilege to serve theafflicted, because he really considered it such; who confessed not tohave worthily exercised this privilege, because he truly felt hisdeficiency; who asked pardon, because he was persuaded he had need ofit. But his hearers, who had beheld these capuchins only occupied inserving them, who had beheld so many of them die in the service, and hewho now spoke in the name of all, always the first in toil as he was thefirst in authority, his hearers could only answer him with tears. Thegood friar then took a cross which rested against a pillar, and holdingit up before him, took off his sandals, passing through the crowd, whichopened respectfully to give him a passage, and placed himself at theirhead.

Renzo, overcome with emotion, drew on one side, and placed himself neara cabin, where, half concealed, he awaited, with his eyes open, hisheart palpitating, but with renewed confidence, the result of theemotion excited by the touching scene of which he had been a witness.

Father Felix proceeded barefooted at the head of the procession, withthe cord about his neck, bearing that long and heavy cross; he advancedslowly but resolutely, as one who would spare the weakness of others,but whose ideas of duty enabled him to rise above his own. The largestchildren followed immediately behind him, for the most part barefooted,and very few entirely clothed; then came the women, nearly all of themleading a child, and singing alternately the _miserere_. The feeblesound of the voices, the paleness and languor of the countenances, wouldhave excited commiseration in the heart of a mere spectator. But Renzowas occupied with his own peculiar anxieties; the slow progress of the

procession enabled him to scan with ease every face as it passed. Helooked and looked again, and always in vain! His eye wandered from rankto rank, from face to face--they came, they passed--in vain, invain--none but unknown features! A new ray of hope dawned upon his mindas he beheld some cars approaching, in which were the convalescents whowere still too feeble to support the fatigue of walking. They approachedso slowly that Renzo had full leisure to examine each in turn. But hewas again disappointed; the cars had all passed, and Father Michael,with his staff in his hand, brought up the rear as regulator of theprocession.

Thus nearly vanished his hopes, and with them his resolution. His onlyground of hope now was to find Lucy still under the power of thedisease; to this sad and feeble hope, he clung with all the ardour ofhis nature. He fell on his knees at the last step of the temple, andbreathed forth an unconnected, but fervent prayer; he arose,strengthened in hope; and passing the railing pointed out by the father,entered into the quarter allotted to the women. As he entered it, he sawon the ground one of the little bells that the _monatti_ carried ontheir feet, with its leather straps attached to it. Thinking it mightserve him as a passport, he tied it to his foot, and then began hispainful search. Here new scenes of sorrow met his eye, similar in partto those he had already witnessed, partly dissimilar. Under the weightof the same calamity, he discerned a more patient endurance of pain, anda greater sensibility to the afflictions of others; they to whom bodilysuffering is a lot and an inheritance, acquire from it fortitude to beartheir own woes, and sympathy to bestow on the woes of others.

Renzo had proceeded some distance on his search, when he heard behindhim a "Ho!" which appeared to be addressed to him. Turning, he saw at adistance a commissary, who cried, "Go there into those rooms; they wantyou there; they have not finished carrying all off."

Renzo perceived that he took him for a _monatto_, and that the littlebell had caused the mistake. He determined to extricate himself from itas soon as he could. Making a sign of obedience, he hid himself from thecommissary, by passing between two cabins which were very near eachother.

As he stooped to unloose the strap of the little bell, he rested hishead against the straw wall of one of the cabins; a voice reached hisear. O Heaven! is it possible? His whole soul was in his ear, hescarcely breathed. Yes! yes! it was that voice! "Fear of what?" saidthat gentle voice; "we have passed through worse dangers than a tempest.He who has watched over us until now, will still continue to do so."

Renzo scarcely breathed, his knees trembled, his sight became dim; witha great effort recovering his faculties, he went to the door of thecabin, and beheld her who had spoken! She was standing, leaning over abed; she turned at the sound of his steps, and gazed for a momentbewildered; at last she exclaimed, "Oh! blessed Lord!"

"Lucy! I have found you again! I have found you again! It is, indeed,you! You live!" cried Renzo, advancing with trembling steps.

"Oh! blessed Lord!" cried Lucy, greatly agitated; "is it indeed you?How? Why? the pestilence----"

"I have had it. And you?"

"Yes. I have had it also. And my mother?"

"I have not seen her yet; she is at Pasturo. I believe, however, thatshe is well. But you are still suffering! how feeble you appear! you arecured, however; you are, is it not so?"

"The Lord has seen fit to leave me a little longer here below," saidLucy. "But, Renzo! why are you here?"

"Why?" said Renzo, approaching her, "do you ask me why I am here? Must Itell you? Whom do I think of then? Am I not Renzo? Are you no longerLucy?"

"Oh! why speak thus! Did not my mother write to you?"

"Yes! she wrote to me! kind things, truly, to write to a poorunfortunate man, an exile from his native land, one, at least, who neverinjured you!"

"But Renzo! Renzo! since you knew--why come, why?"

"Why come! O Lucy! why come, do you say! After so many promises! Are weno longer the same! Is all forgotten?"

"O God!" cried Lucy, sorrowfully clasping her hands, and raising hereyes to heaven; "why didst thou not take me to thyself! O Renzo! whathave you done! Alas! I hoped----that with time----I should have drivenfrom my memory----"

"A kind hope indeed! and to say so to me!"

"Oh! what have you done! in this place! in the midst of these sorrows!Here, where there is nothing but death, you have dared----"

"We must pray to God for those who die, and trust that they will behappy; but their calamity is no reason why those who live must live indespair----"

"But Renzo! Renzo! you know not what you say; a promise to the Virgin! avow!"

"I tell you, such promises are good for nothing."

"Oh! where have you been all this time? with whom have you associated,that you speak thus?"

"I speak as a good Christian. I think better of the Virgin than you do,because I do not believe vows to the injury of others are acceptable toher. If the Virgin had spoken herself, oh! then indeed----but it issimply an idea of your own!"

"No, no, you know not what you say; you know not what it is to make avow! Leave me, leave me, for the love of Heaven!"

"Lucy!" said Renzo, "tell me at least, tell me, if this reason did notexist----would you feel the same towards me?"

"Unfeeling man!" said Lucy, with difficulty restraining her tears;"would it satisfy you to hear me confess that which might be sinful, andwould certainly be useless! Leave me, oh! leave me! forget me! we werenot destined for each other. We shall meet again above; we have notlong to remain in the world. Go! tell my mother that I am cured, thateven here God has assisted me, that I have found a good soul, thisworthy woman who has been a mother to me; tell her we shall meet _when_it is the will of God, and _as_ it is his will. Go! for the love ofHeaven! and remember me no more----except when you pray to God!"

And as if wishing to withdraw from the temptation to prolong theconversation, she drew near the bed where the female was lying of whomshe had spoken.

"Hear me, Lucy, hear me!" said Renzo, without however approaching her.

"No, no; go away! for charity!"

"Hear me, Father Christopher----"

"How!"

"He is here."

"Here! where? how do you know?"

"I have just spoken with him; a man like him it appears to me----"

"He is here! to assist the afflicted, no doubt. Has he had the plague?"

"Ah! Lucy! I fear, I greatly fear----" As Renzo hesitated to utter hisfears, she had unconsciously again approached him, with a look ofanxious enquiry----"I fear he has it now!"

"Oh! poor man! But what do I say? poor man! he is rich, rich in thefavour of God! How is he? Is he confined to his bed? Has he assistance?"

"He is, on the contrary, still assisting others----but if you were tosee him! Alas! there can be no mistake!"

"Oh! is he indeed within these walls?" said Lucy.

"Here, and not far off; hardly farther than from your cottage tomine----if you remember----"

"Oh! most holy Virgin!"

"Shall I tell you what he said to me? He said I did well to come insearch of you, that God would approve it, and that he would assist me tofind you----Thus, then, you see----"

"If he spoke thus, it was because he did not know--"

"What use would there be in his knowing a mere imagination of your own?

A man of sense, such as he is, never thinks of things of that sort. Butoh! Lucy! Shall I tell you what I have seen?"----And he related hisvisit to the cabin.

Lucy, although familiarised in this abode of horrors to spectacles ofwretchedness and despair, was shocked at the recital.

"And at the side of that bed," said Renzo, "if you could have heard theholy man! He said, that God has perhaps resolved to look in mercy onthis unfortunate--(I can now give him no other name)--that he designs tosubdue him to himself, but that he desires that we should pray togetherfor him--together! do you understand?"

"Yes, yes, we will pray each, there where the Lord shall place us. Hecan unite our prayers."

"But if I tell you his very words----"

"But, Renzo, he does not know----"

"But can you not comprehend, when such a man speaks, it is God whospeaks in him, and that he would not have spoken thus, if it ought notto be exactly so? And the soul of this unfortunate! I have prayed, andwill pray for him; I have prayed with all my heart, as if he were mybrother. But what, think you, will be his condition in the other world,if we do not repair some of the evil he has done? If you return toreason, all will be set in order. That which has been, has been--he hashad his punishment here below----"

"No, Renzo, no! God would not have us do evil that good may come. Leaveto him the care of this unfortunate man; our duty is to pray for him. IfI had died that fatal night, would not God have been able to pardon him?And if I am not dead, if I have been delivered----"

"And your mother, poor Agnes, who desired so much to see us man andwife, has she not told you it was a foolish imagination?".

"My mother! think you my mother would advise me to break a vow? Wouldyou desire that she should? But, Renzo, you are not in your right mind!"

"Oh! you women cannot be made to comprehend reason! Father Christophertold me to return, and inform him whether I had found you--I will go,and get his advice----"

"Yes, yes, go to the holy man! Tell him I pray for him, and that Idesire his prayers! But, for the love of Heaven! for your soul's sake,and for mine, do not return here, to trouble, to----tempt me! FatherChristopher will explain matters to you, and make you return toyourself; he will set your heart at rest."

"My heart at rest! Oh! don't encourage an idea of that sort! You have,before now, caused such language to be written to me! and the sufferingit caused me! and now you have the heart to tell it to me! As for me, Ideclare to you plainly, that I will never set my heart at rest. Lucy!you have told me to forget you; forget you! how can I do it? After somany trials! so many promises! Who have I thought of ever since weparted? Is it because I have suffered, that you treat me thus? because I

have been unfortunate? because the world has persecuted me? because Ihave been so long away from you? because the first moment I was able, Icame to seek you?"

"Oh! holy Virgin!" exclaimed Lucy, as the tears flowed from her eyes,"come to my help. You have aided me hitherto; aid me now. Since thatnight such a moment as this have I never passed."

"Yes, Lucy, you do well to invoke the Virgin. She is the mother ofcompassion, and will take no pleasure in our sufferings. But, if this isan excuse--if I have become odious to you--tell me, speak frankly----"

"For pity, Renzo, for pity, stop--stop. Do not make me die. Go to FatherChristopher; commend me to him. Do not return here--do not return here."

"I go, but think not I will not return. I would return from the end ofthe world; yes, I would return!" and he disappeared.

Lucy threw herself on the floor near the bed, upon which she rested herhead, and wept bitterly. The good woman, who had been a silent spectatorof the painful scene, demanded the cause of her anguish and her tears?But, perhaps, the reader will wish to know something of this benevolentperson: we will satisfy the desire in a few words.

She was a rich tradeswoman, about thirty years of age: she had beheldher husband and children die of the plague. Attacked by it herself, shehad been brought to the lazaretto, and placed in the cabin with Lucy,who was just beginning to recover her senses, which had forsaken herfrom the commencement of her attack in the house of Don Ferrante. Thehumble roof could only accommodate two guests, and there grew up, intheir affliction, a strict and intimate friendship between them. Theyderived great consolation from each other's society, and had pledgedthemselves not to separate, after quitting the lazaretto. The goodwoman, whose wealth was now far more ample than were her desires, wishedto retain Lucy with her as a daughter: the proposition was received withgratitude, and accepted, on condition of the permission and approval ofAgnes. Lucy had, however, never made known to her the circumstances ofher intended marriage, and her other extraordinary adventures; but nowshe related, as distinctly as tears permitted her to do so, her sadstory.

Meanwhile Renzo went in search of Father Christopher: he found him withno small difficulty, and engaged in administering consolation to a dyingman. The scene was soon closed. The father remained a short time insilent prayer. He then arose, and seeing Renzo approach, exclaimed,"Well, my son!"

"She is there; I have found her!"

"In what state?"

"Convalescent, and out of danger."

"God be praised!" said the friar.

"But----" said Renzo, "there is another difficulty!"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that----you know how good this poor girl is; but she issometimes a little fanciful. After so many promises, she tells me nowshe cannot marry me, because on that night of fear she made a vow to theVirgin! These things signify nothing, do they? Is it not true that theyare not binding, at least on people such as we are?"

"Is she far from this?"

"Oh no; a few steps beyond the church."

"Wait a moment," said the friar, "and we will go together."

"Will you give her to understand that----?"

"I know not, my son: I must hear what she will say." And they proceededto Lucy's cabin.

The clouds were gathering in the heavens, and a tempest coming on. Rapidlightning, cleaving the increasing darkness, illumined at moments thelong roofs and arcades of the building, and the cupola of the littlechurch: loud claps of thunder resounded with prolonged echoes throughthe heavens. Renzo suppressed his impatience, and accommodated his stepsto the strength of the father, who, exhausted by fatigue, oppressed bydisease, and breathing in pain, could, with difficulty, drag his failinglimbs to the performance of this last act of benevolence.

As they reached the door of the cabin, Renzo stopped, saying, in atrembling voice, "She is there!" They entered. Lucy arose, and rantowards the old man, crying--"Oh, what I do see! Oh, FatherChristopher!"

"Well, Lucy! through how much peril has God preserved you! you must berejoiced that you have always trusted in Him."

"Ah! yes.--But you, my father! how you are changed! how do you feel?say, how are you?"

"As God wills, and as, through his grace, I will also," replied thefriar, with a serene countenance. Drawing her aside, he said, "Hear me,I have but a few moments to spare. Are you disposed to confide in me, asin times past?"

"Oh, are you not still my father?"

"Well, my child, what is this vow of which Renzo speaks?"

"It is a vow I made to the Virgin never to marry."

"But did you forget that you were bound by a previous promise? God, mydaughter, accepts of offerings from that which is our own. It is theheart he desires, the will; but you cannot offer the will of another towhom you had pledged yourself."

"I have done wrong."

"No, poor child, think not so; I believe the holy Virgin has acceptedthe intention of your afflicted heart, and has offered it to God foryou. But tell me, did you ask the advice of any one about this matter?"

"I did not deem it a sin, or I would have confessed it, and the littlegood one does, one ought not to mention."

"Have you no other motive for preventing the fulfilment of your promiseto Renzo?"

"As to that----for myself----what motive?--no other," replied Lucy, witha hesitation which implied any thing rather than uncertainty; and ablush passed over her pale and lovely countenance.

"Do you believe," resumed the old man, "that God has given the churchauthority to remit the obligations that man may have contracted to him?"

"Yes, I believe it."

"Learn, then, that the care of souls in this place, being committed tous, we have the most ample powers from the church; and I can, if you askit, free you from the obligation you have contracted by this vow."

"But is it not a sin to repent of a promise made to the Virgin?" saidLucy, violently agitated by unexpected hope.

"Sin, my child," said the father, "sin, to recur to the church, and toask her minister to use the authority which he has received from her,and which she receives from God! I bless him that he has given me,unworthy that I am, the power to speak in his name, and to restore toyou your vow. If you ask me to absolve you from it, I shall not hesitateto do so; and I even hope you will."

"Then--then--I ask it," said Lucy, with a modest confidence.

The friar beckoned to Renzo, who was watching the progress of thedialogue with the deepest solicitude, to approach, and said aloud toLucy, "With the authority I hold from the church, I declare you absolvedfrom your vow, and liberate you from all the obligations you may havecontracted by it."

The reader may imagine the feelings of Renzo at these words. His eyesexpressed the warmth of his gratitude to him who had uttered them; butthey sought in vain for Lucy's.

"Return in peace and safety to your former attachment," said the father."And do you remember, my son, that in giving you this companion, thechurch does it not to insure simply your temporal happiness, but toprepare you both for happiness without end. Thank Heaven that you havebeen brought to this state through misery and affliction: your joy willbe the more temperate and durable. If God should grant you children,bring them up in his fear, and in love to all men--for the rest youcannot greatly err. And now, Lucy, has Renzo told you whom he has beheldin this place?"

"Yes, father, he has told me."

"You will pray for him, and for me also, my children. You will rememberyour poor friar?" And drawing from his basket a small wooden box,"Within this box are the remains of the loaf--the first I asked forcharity--the loaf of which you have heard; I leave it to you; show it toyour children; they will come into a wicked world; they will meet theproud and insolent. Tell them always to forgive, always! every thing,every thing! And let them pray for the poor friar!"

Lucy took the box from his hands with reverence, and he continued, "Nowtell me what you mean to do here at Milan? and who will conduct you toyour mother?"

"This good lady has been a mother to me," said Lucy; "we shall leavethis place together, and she will provide for all."

"May God bless her!" said the friar, approaching the bed.

"May he bestow his blessing upon you!" said the widow, "for the joy youhave given to the afflicted, although it disappoints my hope of havingLucy as a companion. But I will accompany her to her village, andrestore her to her mother, and," added she, in a low voice, "I will givethe outfit. I have much wealth, and of those who should have enjoyed itwith me none are left."

"The service will be acceptable to God," said the father, "who haswatched over you both in affliction. Now," added he, turning to Renzo,"we must begone; I have remained too long already."

"Oh, my father," said Lucy, "shall I see you again? I have recoveredfrom this dreadful disease, I who am of no use in the world; andyou----"

"It is long since," replied the old man with a serious and gentle tone,"I asked a great favour from Heaven; that of ending my days in theservice of my fellow-men. If God grants it to me now, all those who loveme should help me to return him thanks. And now give Renzo yourcommissions for your mother."

"Tell her all," said Lucy to her betrothed; "tell her I have found hereanother mother, and that we will come to her as soon as we possiblycan."

"If you have need of money," said Renzo, "I have here all that yousent----"

"No, no," said the widow, "I have more than sufficient."

"Farewell, Lucy, and you, too, good signora, till we meet again," saidRenzo, not having words to express his feelings at this moment.

"Who knows whether we shall all meet again?" cried Lucy.

"May God ever watch over you and bless you!" said the friar, as hequitted the cabin with Renzo.

As night was not far distant, the capuchin offered the young man ashelter in his humble abode: "I cannot bear you company," said he, "but

you can at least repose yourself, in order to be able to prosecute yourjourney."

Renzo, however, felt impatient to be gone; as to the hour or the weatherit might be said that, night or day, rain or shine, heat or cold, wereequally indifferent to him; the friar pressed his hand as he departed,saying, "If you find, which may God grant! the good Agnes, remember meto her; tell her, as well as all those who remember Friar Christopher,to pray for me."

"Oh, dear father, shall we never meet again?"

"Above, I hope. Farewell, farewell!"

CHAPTER XXXVI.

As Renzo passed without the walls of the lazaretto, the rain began tofall in torrents. Instead of lamenting, he rejoiced at it: he wasdelighted with the refreshing air, and with the sound of the fallingdrops from the plants and foliage which seemed to have new life impartedto them; and breathing more freely in this change of nature, he feltmore vividly the change that had occurred in his own destiny.

But much would his enjoyment have been increased, could he have surmisedwhat would be seen a few days after. This water carried off, washedaway, so to speak, the contagion. If the lazaretto did not restore tothe living all the living it still contained, at least from that day itreceived no more into its vast abyss. At the end of a week, shops wereopened, people returned to their houses, quarantine was hardly spokenof, and there remained of the pestilence but a few scattered traces.

Our traveller proceeded on full of joy, without having thought _where_or _when_ he should stop for the night; anxious only to go forward toreach the village, and to proceed immediately to Pasturo in search ofAgnes. In the midst of the reminiscences of the horrors and the dangersof the day, there was always present the thought, "I have found her! sheis well! she is mine!"

And then again he recalled his doubts, his difficulties, his fears, hishopes, that had agitated him that eventful morning! He fancied himselfwith his hand on the knocker of Don Ferrante's house! And theunfavourable answer! And then those fools who were about to attack himin their madness! And the lazaretto, that vast sepulchre! To havehurried thither to find her, and to have found her! And the procession!What a moment! And now it appeared nothing to him! And the quarter setapart for the women! And there, behind that cabin when he leastexpected it, that voice! that voice itself! And to see her there! Butthen her vow! It exists no longer. And his violent hatred against DonRoderick, which had augmented his grief, and shed its venom over hishopes! That also was gone. Indeed, had it not been for his uncertaintyconcerning Agnes, his anxiety about Father Christopher, and theconsciousness that the pestilence still existed, his happiness wouldhave been without alloy.

He arrived at Sesto in the evening; the rain had as yet no appearance ofceasing. But Renzo did not stop, his only inconvenience was anextraordinary appetite, which the vicinity of a baker's shop enabled himto mitigate the violence of. When he passed through Monza it was darknight; he succeeded, however, in leaving it by the right road; but whata road! buried between two banks, almost like the bed of a river, itmight then, indeed, have been called a river, or rather, an aqueduct; innumerous places were deep holes, from which Renzo could with difficultyextricate himself. But he did as well as he could, without impatience orregret. He reflected that every step brought him nearer to the end ofhis journey; that the rain would cease when God should please; that daywould come in its own time; and that in the mean time the road he hadpassed over he should not have to travel again. At the break of day hefound himself near the Adda. It had not ceased raining; there was stilla drizzling shower; the light of the dawn enabled Renzo to see aroundhim. He was in his own country! Who can express his sensations? Thosemountains, the _Resegone_, the territory of Lecco, appeared to belong tohim, to be his own! But, looking at himself, he felt that his outwardaspect was rather at variance with the exuberant joyousness of hisheart; his clothes were wet and clinging to his body, his hat bent outof shape and full of water; his hair hanging straight about his face;while his lower man was encased in a dense covering of mud.

He reached Pescate; travelled along the Adda, giving a melancholy glanceat Pescarenico; passed the bridge, and crossed the fields, to the houseof his friend, who, just risen, was at the door, looking out upon theweather. He beheld the strange figure, covered with mud, and wet to theskin, and yet, so joyous and animated! in his life he had never seen aman, so accoutred, appear so satisfied with himself.

"How!" said he, "already here! and in such weather! How have things gonewith you?"

"She is there! she is there! she is there!"

"Well and safe?"

"Convalescent, which is better! I have wonderful things to tell you."

"But what a state you are in!"

"A pretty pickle indeed!"

"In truth you might squeeze water enough from your upper half to washaway the mud from the lower. But wait a moment; I will make a fire."

"I shall be glad to feel its warmth, I assure you. Do you know where therain overtook me? Precisely at the door of the lazaretto; but no matter,the weather does its business, and I mine."

His friend soon kindled a bright blaze. "Now do me another favour," saidRenzo, "bring me the bundle I left above; for before my clothes dry----"

Returning with the bundle, his friend said, "You must be hungry; youhave had drink enough, no doubt, on the way, but as to eating----"

"I bought two loaves yesterday at dusk, but truly, I have not eatenthem."

"Well, I will provide for you." He poured some water in a kettle whichhung over the fire, adding, "I will go and milk the cow, and when Ireturn with the milk, the water will be ready, and we will have a good_polenta_. You, in the mean while, change your clothes." After havingallowed him time to perform the troublesome operation, his friendreturned, and commenced making the _polenta_. "I have much to tell you,"said Renzo. "If you were to see Milan! and the lazaretto! She is there!you will soon see her here; she will be my wife; you shall be at thewedding, and, pestilence or not, we will be happy for a few hours."

On the following morning Renzo set out for Pasturo. On his arrival, heasked concerning Agnes, and learnt that she was in health and safety. Heapproached her residence, which had been pointed out to him, and calledher by name from the street. At the sound of his voice, she rushed tothe window, and Renzo, without allowing her time to speak, cried, "Lucyis well; I saw her the day before yesterday; she will be at homeshortly; oh, I have so many things to tell you."

Overcome by various emotions, Agnes could only articulate, "I will openthe door for you."

"Stop, stop," said Renzo. "You have not had the plague, I believe?"

"No. Have you?"

"Yes; but you ought to be prudent. I come from Milan; and have been fortwo days in the midst of it. It is true I have changed my clothes, butthe contagion attaches itself to the flesh, like witchcraft; and sinceGod has preserved you until now, you must take care of yourself untilall danger is over; for you are our mother, and I trust we shall livelong together as a compensation for the sufferings we have endured, _I_at least."

"But----"

"There is no longer any _but_; I know what you would say. You will soonsee there is no longer any _but_; come into the open air, where I mayspeak to you in safety, and I will tell you all about it."

Agnes pointed to a garden adjoining the house. Renzo entered it, and wasimmediately joined by the anxious and impatient Agnes. They seatedthemselves opposite each other on two benches. The events he describedare already known to our reader, and we will leave to his imaginationthe numerous exclamations of grief, horror, surprise, and joy, thatinterrupted the progress of the narrative every moment. The result,however, was an agreement to settle all together at Bergamo, where Renzohad already an advantageous engagement; _when_ would depend on thepestilence and other circumstances; Agnes was to remain where she was,until it should be safe for her to return home; and in the interval sheshould have regular information of all their movements.

He departed, with the additional consolation of having found one so dearto him safe and well. He remained the rest of that day and the followingnight with his friend, and on the morrow set out for the country of his

adoption.

He found Bortolo in good health, and in less apprehension of losing it,as within a few days things had rapidly changed for the better. Themalignity of the distemper had subsided, and given place to feverindeed, accompanied with tumours, but much more easily cured. Thecountry presented a new aspect; those who had survived the pestilencebegan to resume their business; masters were preparing for theemployment of workmen in every trade; and, above all, in that of weavingsilk. Renzo made some preparations for the accommodation of his family,by purchasing and furnishing a neat little cottage, from his hithertountouched treasure, which the ravages of the plague enabled him to do atsmall cost.

After a few days' stay, he returned by the way of Pasturo, and conductedAgnes to her village home: we will not attempt to describe her feelingsat beholding again those well remembered places. She found all things inher cottage as she had left them: it seemed as if angels had watchedover the poor widow and her child. Her first care was to get ready withall speed an apartment in her humble abode for that kind friend who hadbeen to her child a second mother. Renzo, on his side, was not idle. Helaboured alternately at the widow's garden, and in the service of hishospitable friend. As to his own cottage, it pained him to witness thescene of desolation it presented; and he resolved to dispose of it, andtransfer its value to his new country. His re-appearance in the villagewas a cause of much congratulation to those who had survived the plague.All were anxious to learn his adventures, which had given rise to somany reports among the neighbours. As to Don Abbondio, he exhibited thesame apprehension of the marriage as before; the mention of whichconjured up to his affrighted fancy the dreaded Don Roderick and histrain on the one side, and the almost equally feared cardinal and hisarguments on the other.

We will now transport the reader for a few moments to Milan. Some daysafter the visit of Renzo to the lazaretto, Lucy left it with the goodwidow. A general quarantine having been ordered, they passed the periodof it together in the house of the latter. The time was employed inpreparing Lucy's wedding clothes; and, the quarantine terminated, theyset off on their journey. We could add, _they arrived_, but,notwithstanding our desire to yield to the impatience of the reader,there are three circumstances which we must not pass over in silence.

The first is, that while Lucy was relating her adventures more minutelyto the good widow, she recurred to the signora, who had afforded her anasylum, in the convent of Monza, and in return learnt many things whichafforded her the solution to numerous mysteries, and filled her withsorrow and astonishment. She learnt, too, that the unfortunate signora,falling afterwards under the most horrible suspicions, had been, byorder of the cardinal, transferred to a convent at Milan; that there,after having given herself up for a time to rage and despair, she had atlast made her confession and repented of her crimes; and that herpresent life was one of severe and voluntary penance. If any one desiresto know the details of her sad history, it will be found in the authorwe have so often quoted.[36]

[36] Ripamonti.

The second is, that Lucy, making enquiries concerning FatherChristopher, of every capuchin from the lazaretto, learnt with moregrief than surprise that he had died of the pestilence.

And the third is, that before quitting Milan, Lucy had a desire to knowsomething concerning her former patrons. The widow accompanied her totheir house, where they were informed that both had died of the plague.When we say of Donna Prassede she _died_, we have said all that isnecessary; not so with Don Ferrante, he deserves a little more of ourattention, considering his learning.

From the commencement of the pestilence, Don Ferrante was one of themost resolute in denying its existence, not indeed like the multitude,with cries of rage, but with arguments which none could accuse of wantof concatenation. "In _rerum natura_," said he, "there are but twokinds of things, substances and accidents; and if I prove that thecontagion can neither be one nor the other of these I shall have provedthat it does not exist; that it is a chimera. Thus, then: substances areeither material or spiritual; that the contagion is a spiritualsubstance, is so absurd an opinion, that no one would presume to advanceit; it is, then, useless to speak of it. Material substances are eithersimple or compound. Now, the contagion is not a simple substance, and Iwill prove it in three words. It is not an aerial substance, because, ifit were, instead of passing from one body to another, it would fly offto its sphere; it is not a watery substance, because it would be driedup by the wind; it is not igneous, because it would burn; it is notearthy, because it would be visible. Moreover, it is not a compoundsubstance, because it would be sensible to the eye, or to the touch; andwho has seen it? or touched it? It remains to see if it be an accident.This is still less probable. The doctors say it is communicated frombody to body; this is their Achilles; the pretext for so many uselessregulations. Now, supposing it an accident, it would be a transferableaccident, which is an incongruity. There is not in all philosophy a moreevident thing than this, that an accident cannot pass from one subjectto another; so if, to avoid this Scylla, they are reduced to call it anaccident produced, they avoid Scylla by falling into Charybdis, becauseif it be produced, it does not communicate itself, it does notpropagate, as they declare. These principles allowed, what is the use oftalking of botches and carbuncles?"

"It is folly," said one of his hearers.

"No, no," resumed Don Ferrante, "I do not say so. Science is science; wemust only know how to employ it. Swellings, purple botches, and blackcarbuncles, are respectable terms, which have a good and propersignification; but I say they have nothing to do with the question. Whodenies that there may be and are such things? We must only prove whencethey come."

Here began the vexations of Don Ferrante. So long as he laughed at thecontagion, he found respectful and attentive listeners; but when he cameto distinguish and demonstrate that the error of the doctors was, not inaffirming that there existed a general and terrible disease, but ratherin assigning its cause, then he found them intractable and rebellious,then he no longer dared expose his doctrine, but by shreds and patches.

"Here is the true reason," said he, "and those even who maintain other

fancies are obliged to acknowledge it. Let them deny, if they can, thatthere is a fatal conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn. And when has it beensaid that influences propagate? And would these gentlemen deny theexistence of influences? Will they say there are no planets? or willthey say that they keep up above, doing nothing, as so many pins in apincushion? But that which I cannot understand from these doctors is,that they confess we are under so malign a conjunction, and then theytell us, don't touch this, don't touch that, and you will be safe! asif, in avoiding the material contact of terrestrial bodies, we couldprevent the virtual effect of celestial bodies. And such a work inburning rags! Poor people! will you burn Jupiter? will you burn Saturn?"

_His fretus_, that is to say, on these grounds, he took no precautionsagainst the pestilence; he caught it, and died, like Metastasio's hero,complaining of the stars.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

One fine evening Agnes heard a carriage drive up to the door of hercottage. It was Lucy and the good widow. We can easily imagine the joyof the meeting.

The following morning Renzo made his appearance, at an early hour,little expecting to find Lucy with her mother. "How are you, Renzo?"said Lucy, with downcast eyes, and in a tone--oh how different from thatwith which she addressed all besides! Renzo was conscious that it wasmeant for him alone.

"I am always well when I see you," replied the young man.

"Our poor Father Christopher," said Lucy, "pray for his soul, althoughwe may be almost sure he is now in heaven, praying for us."

"I expected no less," said Renzo mournfully, "I expected to hear that hewas taken away from this world of sorrow and trouble."

Notwithstanding the sadness of their recollections, joy was thepredominant feeling of their hearts. The good widow was an agreeableaddition to the little company. When Renzo saw her in the miserablecabin at the lazaretto, he could not have believed her to be of sofacile and gay a disposition; but the lazaretto and the country, deathand a wedding, are not at all the same things. During the evening Renzoleft them, for the purpose of visiting the curate. "Signor Curate," saidhe, with a respectful but jocular air, "the headache, which, you said,prevented you from marrying us, has it passed off? The bride is here,and I am come to have you appoint an hour, but, I pray you, not to letit be far distant."

Don Abbondio did not say he would not; but he began to offer excuses andinsinuations. "Why come forward into public view with this order for hisapprehension hanging over him? and the thing could be easily doneelsewhere, and then this, and then that."

"I understand," said Renzo, "you have still a little pain in your head,but listen to me." And he described the state in which he had seen DonRoderick.

"That has nothing to do with us," said Don Abbondio. "Did I say no toyou? However, while there is life there is hope, you know. Look at me; Ihave also been nearer the other world than this, and here I amnevertheless; and if new troubles do not fall upon me, I hope to remainhere a little longer."

The conversation was prolonged some time, without coming to anysatisfactory conclusion, and Renzo returned home to relate it. "I cameoff," said he, "because I feared I should lose all patience. At times hebehaved exactly as he did before, and I verily believe if I had remaineda little longer, he would have spoken Latin again. I see that all thisportends a tedious business. It would be better to do as he says, and goand be married where we intend to live."

"Let us go and see what we can do," said the widow, "perhaps he will bemore tractable to the ladies."

They followed this advice, and in the afternoon proceeded to theparsonage. The curate evinced much pleasure on seeing Lucy and Agnes,and much politeness towards the stranger. He endeavoured to divert thediscourse from that which he knew to be the purport of their visit. Hebegged from Lucy a recital of all her woes, and availed himself of theaccount of the lazaretto to draw the stranger into the conversation. Hethen expatiated on his own miseries, which he detailed at full length.The pause so long watched for came at last. One of the widows broke theice; but Don Abbondio was no longer the same man; he did not say _no_;but he returned to his doubts and his difficulties, jumping like a birdfrom branch to branch. "It would be necessary," said he, "to get freefrom this unlucky order. You, signora, who live at Milan, you ought toknow the course of these things; if we had the protection of somepowerful man, all wounds would be healed. After all, the shortest waywould be to have the ceremony performed where these young people aregoing, and where this proscription cannot affect them. Here, with thisorder, which is known to every one, to utter from the altar the name ofLorenzo Tramaglino is a thing I should be very unwilling to do. I wishhim too well; it would be rendering him an ill service."

While Agnes and the widow were endeavouring to reply to these reasons,which the subtle curate as often reproduced under another form, Renzoentered the room, with the air of one bringing important intelligence,"The Lord Marquis *** has arrived!" said he.

"What do you mean? arrived! where?" said Don Abbondio, rising.

"He has arrived at his castle, which was Don Roderick's: he is the heirby feoffment of trust, as they say. So that there is no longer a doubton the subject. And as to the marquis, he is a most worthy man."

"That he is," said Don Abbondio; "I have often heard him spoken of as anexcellent lord. But is it really true that----"

"Will you believe your sexton?"

"Why----"

"Because he saw him with his own eyes. Will you hear Ambrose? I made himwait without expressly."

Renzo called the sexton, who confirmed the intelligence.

"Ah, he is dead then! he is really gone!" said Don Abbondio. "You see,my children, the hand of Providence. It is a happy thing for this poorcountry: we could not live with this man. The plague has been a greatscourge, but it has also been, as it were, a serviceable broom; it hasswept off certain people, of whom, my children, we could never havedelivered ourselves. In the twinkling of an eye they have disappeared bythe hundred. We shall no longer see him wandering about with thathaughty air, followed by his cut throats, and looking at every body asif they were all placed on earth for his pleasure. He is gone, and weare still here! He will send no more messages to honest people. He hasmade us all pass a sad life; and now we are at liberty to say so."

"I pardon him," said Renzo, "with all my heart."

"And you do well; it is your duty; but we may also thank Heaven fordelivering us from him. Now, if you wish to be married, I am ready. Asto the _order for your seizure_, that is of little importance; theplague has carried off that too. If you choose--to-day is Thursday--onSunday, I will publish the banns, and then I shall have the happiness ofuniting you."

"You know we came for that purpose," said Renzo.

"Very well; and I will send word of it to his Eminence."

"Who is his Eminence?" asked Agnes.

"His Eminence? our lord cardinal archbishop, whom may God preserve!"

"Oh, as to that, you are mistaken; I can tell you they do not call himso, because the second time we went to speak with him, one of thepriests drew me aside, and told me I must call him your illustriouslordship, and my lord."

"And now, if that same priest were to tell you, he would say you mustcall him _Your Eminence_; the pope has ordered, that this title be givento the cardinals. And do you know why? Because _Most Illustrious_ wasassumed by so many people who had no right to it. By and by, they willcall the bishops _Your Eminence_, then the abbots will claim it, thenthe canons----"

"And the curates," said the widow.

"No, no, let the curates alone for that; they will be only _YourReverence_ to the end of the world. But to return to our affairs. OnSunday, I will publish the banns at the church, and obtain, in the meantime, a dispensation for omitting the two other publications. There willbe plenty of similar applications, if things go on elsewhere as they dohere; the fire has taken; no one will wish to live alone, I imagine; Ihave already three marriages on hand besides yours; what a pity Perpetua

is dead, she might find a husband! And at Milan, signora, I imagine itis the same thing."

"Yes, indeed. In my parish alone there were fifty marriages lastSunday."

"Well, the world wo'n't end yet. And you, signora, has no butterflybegun to fly around you?"

"No, no, I think not of it; I do not mean to think of it."

"Oh, yes, yes; would you be alone indeed? Agnes also, Agnes also----"

"You have a mind to jest," said Agnes.

"To be sure I have; it is high time. We may hope that the few days thatremain to us will be less sad. As for me, poor old man! there is noremedy for years, as they say, _Senectus ipsa est morbus_."

"Oh, now," said Renzo, "you may speak Latin as much as you like; I don'tcare about it now."

"You still quarrel with Latin, do you? Well, I will not forget you. Whenyou come before me with Lucy, to pronounce some little words in Latin, Iwill say to you, You do not like Latin, go in peace. Eh?"

"Ah, it is not that Latin I dislike, pure and holy like that of themass; I speak of the Latin which falls on one as a traitor, in the verymidst of conversation. For example, now that we are here, and all ispast, the Latin you spoke there, in that corner, to make me understandthat you could not, and----I know not what. Tell me now in language Ican understand, will you?"

"Hush! you mischievous fellow, hush!" said Don Abbondio. "Do not stir upold grievances: if we were to settle our accounts, I do not know whichof us would be in debt to the other. I have forgiven you, but you alsoplayed me an ill turn. As for you, it did not astonish me, because youare a good-for-nothing fellow; but I speak of this silent--this littlesaint; one would have thought it a sin to distrust her. But I know whoadvised her; I know I do," added he, pointing to Agnes.

It is impossible to describe the change which had come over him. Hismind, so long the slave of continual apprehension, was now emancipatedfrom its fetters, and his tongue, liberated from its bonds, recurred toits former habits. He playfully prolonged the conversation, evenfollowing them to the door, with some parting jest.

The following morning, Don Abbondio received a visit, as agreeable as itwas unexpected, from the lord marquis, whose appearance confirmed allthat report had said of him. "I come," said he, "to bring you thesalutations of the cardinal archbishop."

"Oh, what condescension in both of you!"

"When I took leave of that incomparable man, who honours me with hisfriendship, he spoke to me of two young people of this parish who havesuffered much from the unfortunate Don Roderick. My lord wishes to hear

of them. Are they living? Are their affairs settled?"

"Their affairs are settled; and I had thought of writing to his Eminenceabout it, but now that I have the honour----"

"Are they here?"

"Yes; and as soon as possible, they will be man and wife."

"I request you to tell me what I can do for them, and the best manner ofdoing it. You will render me a service by enabling me to dispose of someof my superfluous wealth for their benefit."

"May Heaven reward you! I thank you in the name of my children," saidDon Abbondio; "and since your lordship allows me, I have an expedient tosuggest which perhaps will not displease you. These good people haveresolved to establish themselves elsewhere, and to sell the little thatbelongs to them here. The best charity you can render them, is to buytheir property, as otherwise it will be sold for little or nothing. Butyour lordship will decide, I have spoken in obedience to your commands."

The marquis thanked Don Abbondio, telling him he should leave it to himto fix the price, and to do so entirely to their advantage, as it was anobject with him to make the amount as large as possible. He thenproposed that they should go together to the cottage of Lucy.

On their way, Don Abbondio, quite overjoyed continued theconversation,--"Since your lordship is so disposed to benefit thispeople, there is another service you can render them. The young man hasan order for his apprehension out against him, for some folly hecommitted two years ago at Milan, on the day of the great Tumult. Arecommendation, a word, from a man like yourself, might hereafter be ofservice to him."

"Are there not heavy charges against him?"

"They made a great deal of noise about it; but really there was nothingin it."

"Well, well; I will take it upon myself to free him from allembarrassment."

We may imagine the surprise of our little company, at a visit from sucha guest. He entered agreeably into conversation with them and after awhile, made his proposal. Don Abbondio, being requested by him to fixthe price, did so; the purchaser said he was well satisfied, and, if hehad not understood him, in repeating it, doubled the sum. He would nothear of rectifying the mistake, and ended the conversation by invitingthe company to dinner the day after the wedding, when the affair couldbe settled with every necessary formality.

"Ah!" thought Don Abbondio when he returned home, "if the pestilenceacted everywhere with so much discrimination, it would be a pity tospeak ill of it. We should want one every generation."

The happy day at length arrived. The betrothed went to the church wherethey were united by Don Abbondio. The day after, the wedding party made

their visit at the castle. We will leave the reader to imagine theirreflections on entering those walls! In the midst of their joy,however, they felt that the presence of the good Father Christopher waswanting to complete it. "But," said Lucy, "he is even happier than weare, assuredly."

The contract was drawn up by a doctor, but not _Azzecca Garbugli_! Hewas gone to _Canterelli_. For those who are not of this country, anexplanation of this expression may be necessary.

About half a mile above Lecco, and nearly on the borders of the otherterritory, called Castello, is _Canterelli_. This was a spot where tworoads cross. Near the point of junction there is a small eminence, anartificial hill, surmounted by a cross. This was a heap of bodies, deadof this epidemic. It is true, tradition simply says, _the dead of theepidemic_; but it must have been this one, as it was the last, and mostsevere within the memory of man: and we know that tradition says verylittle of itself, unless we render it some assistance.

On their return, no other inconvenience was felt, than the weight of themoney which Renzo had to sustain. However, he did not look upon this asone of the greatest hardships he had had to encounter. There was,however, one matter which perplexed him not a little. How should heemploy it? Should it be in agriculture? Should it be in business? Or whychoose at all? Were not both in turn, like one's legs, better thaneither singly?

It will be asked, Did they feel no regrets on quitting their nativevillage--their native mountains? Don Roderick and his wretched agentscould no longer disturb them. Regrets they did feel; but the oldrecollections of happiness enjoyed amidst its scenes, had been greatlyweakened by recent distresses and apprehensions, and new hopes hadarisen connected with their new country; so that they could look totheir change of abode without any feelings of grief.

The little company now thought only of preparing for their journey,--the_Tramaglino_ family to their new country, and the widow to Milan. Manytears were shed, many thanks given, and many promises to meet again. Theseparation of Renzo and the friend who had treated him so hospitably,was not less tender. Neither did they part coldly from Don Abbondio:they had always preserved a certain respect for their curate, and he, inhis heart, had always wished them well. It is these unfortunate affairsof the world which perplex our affections. But who would believe that,in this new abode, where Renzo had expected such happiness, he shouldfind only vexation! This was the result of trifles, doubtless; but itrequires so little to disturb a state of happiness in this life!

The reports the Bergamascans had heard of Lucy, together with Renzo'sextraordinary attachment to her--perhaps, too, the representations ofsome partial friend--had contributed to excite an extravagant idea ofher beauty. When Lucy appeared, they began to shrug their shoulders, andsay, "Is this the woman? We expected something very different! What isshe, after all? A peasant, like a thousand others! Women like her, andfairer than she, are to be found every where!"

Unfortunately, some kind friends told Renzo these things, perhaps addedto what they had heard, and roused his indignation. "And what

consequence is it to you?" said he. "Who told you what to expect? Did Iever do so? Did I tell you she was beautiful? She is a peasant,forsooth! Did I ever say I would bring a princess here? She does notplease you. Do not look at her, then: you have beautiful women; look atthem." Thus did he make himself unhappy; and believing that all weredisposed to criticise his Lucy, he showed ill nature in return. It wouldhave gone ill with him, if he had been condemned to remain in the place;but fortune smiled on him in this respect.

The master of another manufactory, situated near the gates of Bergamo,being dead, the inheritor of it, a young libertine, was willing to sellit half price, for ready money. Bortolo proposed to his cousin that theyshould make the purchase together. They did so; and when they enteredinto possession, Lucy was much pleased, and Renzo also, and not the lessso for having heard that more than one person amongst his neighbours hadsaid, "Have you seen this beautiful simpleton who is just come?"

Their affairs now went on prosperously. Before the year was completed,a beautiful little creature made her appearance, as if to give them theearliest opportunity of fulfilling Lucy's vow. Be assured it was namedMaria. In the course of time, they were surrounded by others of bothsexes, whom Agnes was delighted to carry about one after the other,calling them little rogues, and loading them with kisses. They were alltaught to read and write; "for," said Renzo, "as this notion is in thecountry, we may as well take advantage of it."

It was highly pleasing to hear him relate his adventures: he alwaysconcluded by naming the great things he had learnt, by which to governhis conduct for the future. "I have learnt," said he, "not to mix inquarrels; not to preach in public; not to drink more than I want; not tokeep my hand on the knocker of a door, when the inhabitants of the placeare all crazy; not to tie a little bell to my feet, before I think ofthe consequences."

"And I!" said Lucy, who thought that the doctrine of her moralist,though sound, was rather confused, and certainly incomplete--"what haveI learnt?" said she. "I have not sought misfortunes, they have soughtme. Unless you say," smiling affectionately, "that my error was inloving you, and promising myself to you."

They settled the question, by deciding that misfortunes most commonlyhappen to us from our own misconduct or imprudence; but sometimes fromcauses independent of ourselves; that the most innocent and prudentconduct cannot always preserve us from them; and that, whether theyarise from our own fault or not, trust in God softens them, and rendersthem useful in preparing us for a better life. Although this was said bypoor peasants, it appears to us so just, that we offer it here as themoral of our story.

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